Cursed
by audreyslove
Summary: Robin comes over to Storybrooke with the first curse. He meets Regina, and then she comes over and over.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This was written for OQ Smut Week. Enjoy!**

* * *

She's five years older today.

She's five years older today, yet her body has not aged. The people around her have not changed. Seasons change, the budget meetings vary from day to day, but everything's all the same. People let her win every argument. She always wins.

She's lonely.

She has Graham, but he doesn't notice that time passes. He doesn't remember the secrets she tells him, and in some ways that's comforting. She can open up to him and cry, cry about her vindictive mother, her cowardly, stupid, loving, too-trusting father. She can avoid the details that are damning and just open her soul up to him, and he'll hold her and cradle her head and tell her that she's not alone, that he's with her.

And she can sometimes believe it, but within days the memory of what they shared fades, part of the curse. Erases his mind. Resets him.

And the distance grows.

She's calculated it. It's five days before the clock in Graham's head resets, five days until his memories slip away, lost to the curse forever.

There is no relationship that can be formed in this curse. Nothing can grow when the lifespan is only five days. Oh, it's a dark curse, and she paid a dark price, all for the dark sense of loneliness she is doomed to live for...all eternity? Is this her own special version of hell?

Her only consolation is that as miserable as she is, Snow White is even more miserable Miserable and alone, and pathetic.

But it's been five years. Five years of seeing Snow sad and alone.

And it really isn't all that satisfying after all.

Today she takes the afternoon off, leaves her elegant office in favor of her favorite place in the woods, where a fallen log makes the perfect bench. It's beautiful here, just the beginning of autumn; crisp, radiant leaves surround her, frame the beautiful view of the sunset in front of her. She has her travel coffee mug - a coffee mug she's filled with hot chocolate and laced with a generous pour of whiskey. Oh hell, who is she kidding. It's whiskey with a generous pour of hot chocolate. Still, it's warm, and delicious, and it dulls the pain a bit. The pain of knowing this is an anniversary not only of the curse's birth, but of her father's death.

God, she misses him. But if there's one thing she knows, she knows a man as kindly as him is in a place far better than this hell. Better than the life of a man who was married to an evil woman and fathered an even more evil, ungrateful daughter.

Five years he's been free.

"To five years," she says, toasting to the setting sun before taking a long sip and swallowing hard, fighting the tears in her eyes and willing them to settle, not to fall.

"Five years of what?" says a voice behind her, and she jumps, her mug dropping to the ground, spilling the contents.

She curses and scowls at the stealthy intruder. _Locksley._ God, he is insufferable. It seems every time she wanted to be alone he'd show up.

"Apologies, m'lady. I didn't expect to find anyone here."

"Yes, well, this log is occupied," she says tightly. "Be on your way."

"Well, I can't do that," he says, sitting down next to her. "You see, I am the park ranger."

"I'm aware," she says, before adding, "I hired you."

That's not… exactly true. She did cast The Dark Curse and she had a say over the lives of many over whom it was cast but… the curse itself filled in where she had not set up a specific plan. She did not know this man from the Land of Magic. Didn't know his past, who he was before...this. But the curse had made him a park ranger, so he must have had some connection to the woods.

So technically, the dark curse hired him. But he doesn't need to know that.

"Indeed you did," Locksley agrees, taking out a flask and helping himself to a generous sip. "And I believe I am to enforce rules. And one very important one" —he points to her coffee mug, a devilish smile on his face— "is no alcoholic beverages on park grounds."

Why that little—!

She could just—

But it's a joke, he's made that clear, especially with the flask he's holding now. He's playing with her. Trying to engage her. And for what purpose?

He's so… He makes her so mad, has this way of pressing her buttons and bothering her. That's not supposed to happen in the curse, she's always supposed to win, and yet...

She should just get up from this log and leave, make a comment about drinking on the job being a fireable offense, and let that be that.

But the sunset is beautiful, and it's unseasonably warm, and he's holding out a flask to her, and he's sitting right next to her, their legs are touching, and the physical contact is just… oddly soothing.

Perhaps it's because she's deprived of physical contact. People don't touch her. Or they do – one person does. But it's Graham when he's taking her to bed, when he's in bed with her, or when they are leaving bed.

And it's surprisingly lacking in intimacy despite the rather, er, intimate things they do to one another (five years, five years is plenty of time to try new and exciting things that Graham will only remember for few moments in time).

So perhaps the lack of touching is why her skin is buzzing right now, or perhaps it's just the chilly breeze causing shivers down her spine and goosebumps to flare underneath her clothes.

Whatever the reason for it, it feels nice.

She takes the flask from his hands and takes a sip herself, her eyes focusing on the sunset, but she sees his smile, sees him watching her out of the corner of her eye.

"I was unaware I hired a ranger with a drinking problem," she sighs, pretending to be concerned. "I shall have to make arrangements for you to be replaced immediately."

"You wound me, m'lady," he answers, hand going to his heart in mock anguish. "And I'm not a drunk. Just a man who knows when a woman could use a drink. Especially after I snuck up on you and caused you to spill your own."

She bites her lip to keep from smiling, and then asks, "How did you know I had liquor in my mug?"

"Not many people make toasts with coffee," he reminds her, and he's staring at her in that playful way, and god, his eyes are… they're… rather nice.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks in that warm, inviting tone that soothes her, lulls her into a false sense of security, makes her forget for a moment that she is the Evil Queen and this man is a villager who probably spent a good portion of his days either plotting her death or dreaming of it.

"I do _not,_ " she says, coming to her senses. "And you should be on your way."

"I think… you do want to talk about it." He scoots closer to her then, and she rolls her eyes.

"What makes you think that?"

"The fact that if you didn't, you'd have probably put me behind bars by now," he answers smoothly, and she laughs. God, to laugh. When's the last time she's truly laughed?

"Good point," she concedes.

She clears her throat. "I – I lost someone, and I was just paying tribute to him."

Robin nods in acknowledgement. He's reaching inside his jacket, shuffling to get something, and then there's _another_ flask in there, and she cannot help but snort. He takes his flask and holds it up to the sun. "To the loved ones we've lost." And then he tilts it to her, and she knocks the flask in her hand against his with a smile.

She takes a big gulp out of the flask. For a while, they are silent.

"You don't like me," she says pointedly, because it's true, he hates her.

Robin laughs at the change in the conversation.

"That's not true, not true at all."

"You always go out of your way to mock me," she grunts, leaning elbows against her knees. "Every time I need to speak with you about something, you're more interested in playing games than giving me a direct answer. You stare at me. All the time, as if you are fixing to come over and give me a piece of your mind." She states her case clearly, her eyes focused on him, and repeats the phrase: "You don't like me."

He winces a bit, takes a sip of his flask and sighs, "Quite the opposite, I'm afraid."

She tilts her head in question, and Robin laughs, and he looks down, running hands through his hair.

"I— You know you're a beautiful woman, do you not?"

He's embarrassed, his face is red and flushed, and it's not just the ever-chilling air that's causing the color.

But Regina is not used to strangers admiring her beauty anymore, it was not something she thought she ever wanted. She was done with men looking at her and seeing someone beautiful – that was dangerous. The king saw her as beautiful, and where had that gotten her? It had brought her unspeakable terrors and nightmares she still had to live with. So no, she did not want men to see her as beautiful, but as powerful and terrifying.

Even as the mayor, it seems most men still saw her that way. But he has always looked at her differently. It has just been so long since anyone has looked at her with a lust in their eyes that she hadn't recognized it. No one would look at her like that, unless she approached them first, solicited them first, gave them a reason to lust for her.

"Are you flirting with me?" she asks, and her voice draws a bit, sounds a bit cutesy for her liking. But despite sounding more vulnerable than she'd like, the question appears to have embarrassed Locks— Robin more.

"Terribly, it seems," Robin says, turning away from her, watching the sun fade behind the horizon. "But I can assure you, when I'm staring at you, the last thing I'm thinking about is giving you a piece of my _mind._ "

She snorts at that, downright laughs, head moving backwards in a light cackle, and he snickers along with her. She lets a hand settle on his thigh as she settles, and it feels nice. Sturdy. Warm.

"And what do you want to give me?" She asks, her eyes a bit wild. God, what is she doing? She should stop this already and go home. But the hurt of losing her father is less now, and this distraction is a good one.

Robin leans his head against her, his lips a centimeter from her ear and whispers, "I want to give you… something you can enjoy." He nips her ear, and she shivers on instinct, cursing herself for letting him know how he's affected her. His breath is warm against her neck as he dips down. "I want to give you pleasure," he says, his lips barely touching her sensitive skin, and he moves his head up, hand cupping her jaw, mouth near her cheek as he says, "I just want you. That's why I can't stop staring."

She squirms on the log. And… this is uncomfortable. She should be disgusted, appalled, but she's… well… what's the harm? In five days, he will forget this ever happened.

"Mm, but too afraid to do anything about this wanting," she flirts, "Such a pity. I like the men I hire to show more initiative…"

And it's all she has to say before his lips are on her. And _wow_... One hand on his cheek, the touching is electric, she feels… alive for the first time in years. God, this was a good idea.

A very good idea. His tongue meets hers, and it's as if they've been doing this dance for ages. His kiss is firm, with the right amount of tongue swirling, massaging against her, making her think of what other ways he might be able to use his tongue.

That hand on her waist dips to her ass, and he's cupping and pulling her towards him, and she realizes he's urging her up and over, wants her on him, to straddle him here, on this log, now, and she shouldn't, she really shouldn't, but the angle they are at now is a bit awkward, and she just wants _more._

So she straddles him, sits on his lap, her core instantly coming in contact with the sign of his arousal, and it pleases her, has her smiling before she kisses him more, his hand undoing her very sharp, very clean, very _expensive_ suit jacket, and _god_ , it should really not touch the forest ground, it should not, but he's taking it off and she doesn't care, she'll get a new one, god damn it.

His hands run up and down her sides. The fabric of her silk blouse is so thin, and her bra is just flimsy fabric, thin enough that the cold air, and yes, what this man is doing with his tongue on her neck right now, and his hands at her sides, and the bulge in his pants between her thighs, it has her nipples hard, nearly poking through fabric, begging to be touched.

She moans as he rocks into her, everything has gone hyper-sensitive and her body is buzzing with desire, an ache between her thighs makes itself known, and she can feel the liquid heat gathering, growing, at every firm touch of his arms, at every stroke of his tongue.

"I can't believe this is happening," he murmurs against her neck, hot breath against the damp skin where he's kissed and sucked and licked, and she shivers again. What exactly _is_ happening? She doesn't want to think about what will come, not right now, so she presses her lips to his, grinds down against him hard, revels when he throws his head back and groans.

"Regina…"

She takes his hands in hers, and moves them to her breasts. It's...bold. But she's impatient, and her nipples are aching. The forwardness of the move surprises him, it seems; his face is something that almost resembles panic, and she just about moves up and off him, but then as she watches the way he looks at her, and her breasts, there's almost a reverence there, and it's not fear, he's not afraid of her, he's just nervous.

He's nervous because he's wanted this, and this is finally happening.

She would have never imagined there'd be anyone in town, aside from Graham, that would ever want her this way. The thought that he's existed all along and wanted her all along thrills her, has her even more aroused, has her throwing her lips against his into a hungry, heated kiss.

"I've wanted this for so long," he pants, as if he can read her mind, and at that she rips her mouth away, confused and intrigued with the statement.

"For… how long?" she asks, her eyes searching for his, holding her breath, wondering if he can remember in days or years or months, if passage of time hasn't escaped him like it has everyone else.

"For…" He looks off, confused, and amends, "For as bloody long as I can remember. Ages, it feels like."

Of course. She shouldn't be disappointed that the curse has affected him as everyone else. In fact, it'd be a disaster if he noticed that time had stopped still.

He draws her into a kiss, and she takes it, drinks him in, but the sun is setting and the air is chilly.

"We can't..." she says as his hands move underneath her shirt, cold, calloused fingers inching up towards her breasts.

He freezes at her words, his hands leaving her body, confusing her.

"Are you alright?" he rasps, swallowing hard. "I didn't – did I hurt you?"

It dawns on her just then that she has, in so many words, told him to stop, and he has done so.

She didn't have to make an order as the Evil Queen. Didn't have to threaten or demand. She merely had to express slight discomfort, and he stopped. Not because he was afraid of her. He didn't stop for his own selfish reasons, or for fear of what she would do if he didn't stop. He stopped for _her_.

She could just about cry, wondering why fate never brought her a man who offered her this decency in the past. Perhaps Daniel would have been that man, if they had ever gone that far… Yes, she knew he would have been. Life would be so different if she had just had _this._

"I'm fine," she assures, and the smile that spreads on his face is addictive, has her smiling back at him, and she feels how sappy and silly she must look. But it's okay. Five days and he won't remember her stupid, sappy smile.

"Just… It's cold and dirty here, and I want to be somewhere warm" —she kisses his brow— "and clean" —kisses his temple— "and soft" —her lips meet his for another heated kiss, and she feels his hands thread through her hair.

"Wherever I go with you," Robin says, his voice raspy and low, "I can promise there are a few things that will never be soft."

She rolls her eyes at that, biting her lip to hide her amusement, but she can't help the smile that peaks out.

And his words have affected her so much tonight that she can't help but give as good as she's gotten, and leans to whisper in his ear, "I want you." She licks his earlobe, hears his whimpered sigh, and it's music to her ears. And then she adds, "If I take you on this log, I fear you'll have splinters in very unfortunately places."

His eyes are shut tight in a grimace, and he swallows hard. "Would be worth it," he groans, and then shakes himself to reality, tapping her thighs gently, motioning her to stand up. He pulls himself off the log, and he's in quite a state, visibly, ridiculously hard, grunting as he stands.

"Come," he says, grasping her hand as he makes a beeline for the nearest trail.

"Where are we going?"

"We're taking shelter," Robin says frankly as he leads her down the trail, trying not to drag her along, resisting the urge to run with her, but his impatience with the pace she has set is written all over his face.

She's enjoying torturing him, though, and so she walks even slower.

He stares back at her, that hungry look (god, how did she ever think that stare was hateful?) and groans, his eyes wandering over her body shamelessly. "Once I get you inside, I'm ripping those bloody clothes off your body," he growls.

She smirks back at him, one eyebrow raised. "You will not. This is delicate fabric, and you will be gentle."

"If you don't want me to rip that bloody _delicate fabric_ apart, you should move a little faster," he snarls, and she tries to look offended, but honestly, the thought of him ripping her clothes (as much as she loves them) has her feeling warm, has the ache inside her pulsing a bit more, her needs becoming more known.

She walks just a bit faster, and his hand squeezes hers in encouragement or thanks, she knows not what.

"God, you're gorgeous," he mutters. "You always wear these god damn outfits, so demure, so professional, but they're fucking sexy as hell. I hate them. Hate the things they do to me, those tight skirts and tailored pants that make your ass look bloody irresistible."

" _My ass_ makes my ass look irresistible," she cannot help but say, and he laughs at that.

"I have no doubt," he says sincerely, and god, he looks like he's about to devour her, and they need to get to… wherever he's going soon, because he doesn't look like he can keep his hands off her, and, to be quite honest she doesn't really think she can resist him either.

Still, as they walk, she takes the hand that's holding his and moves their joined hands behind her back, pressing them against the swell of her ass. His hand flies out of hers, he trades grabbing onto her hand for grabbing onto her ass.

"Fuck," he breathes, hands greedily kneading her as they walk. "Need you. Now."

She'd been too distracted by the words and looks he'd been given her to notice they are now in front of a small cabin. He's ushering her in the small door.

It's one small room, no electricity, if the electric lanterns are any indication. Probably no running water, either. . Still, there's a couch, a clean looking couch at that, a few blankets, a makeshift kitchen, and it's… it'll do.

No sooner has she entered the cabin than he's shutting the door behind her and pushing her against the wall.

He's still hard, she feels him against her hip. The walk obviously did nothing to cool him off, and there's something unbelievably hot about that, about knowing that his desire for her burned all the way through a brisk hike in the woods.

He kisses her with an intensity she hadn't known before, peeling her jacket off yet again, and then his hands are on her ass, grabbing and cupping shamelessly, and _fucking hell_ it feels amazing, he is decidedly not gentle, yet he's not overly aggressive either. He's just… passionate. Knows what he wants, and reads her well enough to know what _she_ wants.

"I want to feel you," he growls between kisses as a hand raises to the waistband of her pants. His fingers still there in a silent question, an unspoken request. She finds herself nodding immediately, granting him the permission he seeks, her hips jutting out as he unbuttons and unzips. The pants pool at her feet, and she quickly grabs the garment and throws it towards the couch. Better than on the floor, at least.

She's standing there in trouser socks and heels, black panties and a thin silk top. He steps back and takes a moment to admire her, and she almost blushes. God, he's sexy when he looks at her like that, when his hands run up and down either side of her body, tracing the curves of her breasts, her waist, her hips. He's slowed things down suddenly, and in this moment, the knowledge of what's to come makes everything feel sharper, more acute.

His hands find the hem of her top and she nods as he lifts it over her head. His eyes immediately go to her breasts, and good, she's worn a decent bra today, they look nice at least.

"Turn around," he rasps, and for a second she's confused, but the request thrills her, so she turns her back to him, places palms on either side of her against the wall.

She doesn't turn her head to look back at him, at first, feels his hands moving in firm, deliberate strokes down her back, murmuring how bloody gorgeous she is, how her ass is a godsend...

His hands move from her shoulders to that dip in the small of her back, up and down the swell of her ass as he groans loudly and unashamedly, his hands even coast down her thighs.

She's surprised the relatively tame touch has driven her right to the edge; her hips rock reflexively, seeking friction, and a sound comes out of her mouth she barely recognizes. He draws his hands back up her thighs and over her ass, grabbing at her again with a soft little moan. And again, his fingers play with the waistband of her panties.

"Please, I beg of you, tell me these can come off," and his voice sounds as desperate and needy as she feels.

"Mm, if they come off it better be for a good reason," she's trying to flirt, but she's a bit far gone for that. Still, as she turns she finds him biting his lip in a smile.

"They need to come off or I'll damn well lose my mind," he mutters, stripping her of the small scrap of fabric slowly but deliberately. He does the same with her bra, and she sighs in relief as her breasts are free, exposed to the cool air.

"Well… we hardly have room for another body in the psych ward," Regina manages to quip back.

He's done with this game, though, lost his ability to be witty, his eyes fixed on her naked back, and he kneels behind her, hands coasting between her legs now, up, up...

She feels his mouth on her ass cheek, an open, wet kiss and then a gentle, but firm bite, and it sends a jolt of pleasure through her, causes her hips to thrust again.

He moves on hand from her thighs to her hip, holding her in place as his other hand travels between her thighs, finally - _finally_ touching where she needs him.

"Ohh," she breathes out, his groan overpowering her moan of relief, and then, " _Finally_ " under her breath.

"God, Regina" —his voice sounds like a plea, like a prayer, his fingers slipping through her folds, making gentle strokes through her wetness, "You're soaked."

She can only nod, because at that moment he slides a finger inside her, and she didn't know just how bad she needed that until she had it. God she'd been so keyed up for so long, she needed him, deep inside her.

She's rocking against his hand now, moaning and panting as he works that finger in and out, slow at first, but building speed once he finds the angle that causes her to cry out in pleasure. He adds a second finger, and her palms push hard against the wall, head falling back with a cry of "Don't stop!"

He must have misunderstood, because his fingers slip out of her, and the whimper of protest she makes would be downright embarrassing if he hadn't lightly cursed himself at the same moment. But then he's using those hands to turn her around.

She stares down at him, and he's in a state. His eyes are hooded and dark, and he's biting his lip and breathing hard.

"I need to taste you," he explains, and then he stands up quickly, wrapping his arms around her, lifting her up and carrying her quickly to the couch.

He deposits her on the couch and stares up at her. She's naked, and he is fully clothed, and it seems unfair. She grabs his shirt, and tugs it up, lifting it over his head.

He should never wear a shirt. The fact that he was hiding this under clothes is nearly a crime.

She should make it a crime.

Her hands trace the defined muscles of his abs, an appreciative purr of approval coming from her lips.

"Like – _mm_ – what you see?" he asks, but her touch must be doing things to him, his eyes are closed and his breath is labored.

"It's… satisfactory," she settles on, looking up with him with a wink.

"Is that so?" he asks, and then his hands go to her shoulders, urging her to lay down; she goes willingly.

"Speaking of satisfying…"

Well, no, that's not what she'd said, and she should correct him, but he's just tugged her thighs apart and now he's lowered his mouth to right where she needs him and she loses all thought.

His tongue.

He is good with his tongue.

He is licking just around where he knows she needs him, her clit is aching, swollen, throbbing with need, and he's teasing her, swirling that delicious tongue around her sex, and this is going to be it, he's going to reduce her into a puddle of need, she's going to beg for it, it's too good, too much, she can't wait any longer—

"Ugnnhh!"

He swipes his tongue quickly and firmly against her clit, and she damn near levitates off the couch, jolting up and crying out a deep, throaty, desperate moan.

"Just there?" he asks, but he knows the answer, he gives that same spot another firm lick, and her hips jut, thighs hooking over his shoulders, trying to keep this man and his very talented tongue in place.

His hand is there now, fingers dancing around her entrance, and, God, she wants them back inside her, pumping in and out of her, but he's hesitating for some reason and, no, she's past the point of games.

"Inside," she begs, "Please, I want your fingers inside me, like, like before."

Her request affects him, and between nibbles and sucks and licks he asks, "You want my fingers inside you? Thrusting in you, fucking you? Do you want me to make you come apart around my fingers?"

She nods desperately, and he pushes inside her, two fingers, together sliding easily inside her, not a hint of resistance.

"So wet," he moans, "and warm, you're so fucking warm, and tight."

His mouth is back on her sex, sucking and licking greedily, and she's dripping with pleasure, the coil inside her pulling tighter and tighter, she's so wound up, she cannot resist, cannot hold back, cannot help how her hips rock into his hands, push into his face.

It's happening fast, too fast, but his mouth is a marvel, his tongue is unrelenting, and those fingers, those fingers are reaching places inside her Graham rarely meets, and God, this is it, it's happening.

"Robin..." and is this the first time she's used his name? God, it feels so right to say his name here and now in the throes of passion.

"I'm – I am going to…"

"Please let go for me," he begs into her sex, licking and scraping her clit gently with his bottom teeth, "I need to feel you come, need to feel you come apart around me."

And with that his lips surround her clit, and he sucks firmly, tongue licking firmly as he does, and she sees stars, feels herself pulse and quake, waves of pleasure hitting her, stemming from her sex and washing all around her, her skin is hot and tingling, the sounds coming out of her mouth are barely recognizable, but oh, it feels so good, so damn good.

He rides out her orgasm, fingers never leaving her, just thrusting slower as she settles, as loud moans turn into little whimpered cries.

When the last pulses of pleasure finally leave her, he removes his fingers, lifts his head to meet hers in a kiss. He tastes of her, and until now, she didn't think she liked that, didn't want to be kissed after someone had gone down on her, but this, for some reason, the taste of her on his lips feels right.

She realizes she wants more. Not out of obligation, not out of some need to give him as good as he gave her, but she _wants_ to feel him this way.

Her hands fall to the waist of his jeans and she tugs at them, the meaning clear.

"I need these off," she whispers into the space between them.

"If they come off, it better be for a good reason," he says, mimicking her earlier statement.

"Take them off and fuck me," she orders, her breathing labored, her eyes dark. She feels… almost feral. But it's worth it, seeing the effect she has on him, the way he swallows hard, moaning despite the fact she hasn't even touched him.

"As you wish, Madame Mayor," he responds, and his pants are off in a matter of minutes, pulling his boxers down with them, flinging the clothes near where he had left his shoes earlier.

He situates himself between her thighs, one hand on his cock, guiding himself inside her, the other bracing himself against the couch so as not to crush her.

He bites that lower lip of his while he stares down at where they are about to be joined, and lets out a soft moan and a whispered _bloody gorgeous_ before he pushes inside her, filling and stretching her deliciously.

"Fucking Christ, Regina" he moans as he pushes all the way inside, his eyes shut tight, face in a distorted grimace. "You feel… fuck. Nothing has ever, no one has ever – it's never been this bloody wonderful."

She should tease him for the incoherent sentences – should, but won't, because he feels amazing inside her, and she wants more, needs more.

She places her hands on his ass, and urges him to move against her, but he shakes his head.

"Give me a moment," he mutters, "Just let me have – I just want a moment."

She chuckles and nods in response, and he's still inside her, the hand bracing his weight shifts so he's on a bended elbow, and his free hand cups one of her breasts, kneading shamelessly, then pinching and stroking the nipple.

She feels desire build inside her once more, and hisses at his fingers, eyes rolling in the back of her head as she purrs, _Feels good._

"They certainly do," he agrees, as his hand cups her other breast and she could laugh if it didn't feel so good. Her hips rock into him; If he won't move, she's going to.

The movement causes him to grimace and groan, his body tenses a bit, and he shakes his head, willing her to stop tempting him.

"Fuck me," she begs again, her voice needy and desperate, and the sigh of defeat that falls from his lips sounds like sweet music to her ears.

He moves inside her torturously slow at first, but she wraps her legs tightly around his waist, her hands encouraging him to move like he wants to, and he picks up speed after a few thrusts, his eyes searching her face, responding to her moans, shifting to find an angle that suits her best.

It's so… intense. Passionate. Completely and utterly satisfying her every need and at the same time making her want more.

She shouldn't be able to – she doesn't orgasm easily, once is rare, twice is unheard of, for all the time with Graham, all the different things they've tried...

"What do you see in me?" she asks quietly, "We barely talk, what do you see that makes you…"

It's an awkward time to have a tender moment. He's hard inside her, her legs wrapped around him and hands on his back, and he should be annoyed she's ruined the moment, let things turn from raw, needy emotions into… whatever this is.

"You already know how beautiful I think you are," he starts, before adding, "but you're strong, dedicated. Your job is important to you and you're passionate about this town, about how things should work. It intimidates people, how direct you can be, but many are intimidated by a strong woman. And you use that to your advantage, let people be afraid, but I've seen you with children, and with animals. You're kind, kind when you don't think people will see you. You're kind to my son when you don't think I can see you. And there's just…" —he sighs, smiling— "This isn't how I planned telling you, but I always _planned_ to tell you. There's just something about you; I'm drawn to you, since as long as I can remember."

It should be terrifying, should be, but isn't, because she can enjoy this, enjoy the closeness of this for now, and await the moment when this resets, when his words erase, and he goes back to the man who stares at her, the man who thinks to approach her but does not.

Her hands wrap around his neck, draw him into a kiss, and she bends a knee, shifts the angle, and he gets the point, leans back and hooks her knee over his shoulder, leaning forward once more to kiss her again, thrusting inside her and she lets out a long, deep moan.

"There we go," he urges, "There, that sounds right."

She shakes her head, this is where he needs to be, just this angle, just this time, just this moment. God, he feels amazing, he's thrusting in deeply, the angle hitting her clit just right, and the pleasure building inside her is unprecedented, that she can reach such heights again, so soon, right after their last time.

She starts to flutter around him, and he sinks his teeth into her shoulder, just hard enough to earn a squeak from her, and then he stops, soothes over the bite with his tongue.

"I'm not – I'm not—" he starts, his breathing labored, eyes dark and needy, "I won't finish until you do."

She shifts a bit, hands find his back and she pushes him against her, making the thrusts a bit more powerful, and he gets it, keeps the angle, but adds pressure to each thrust, going harder into her, causing her to moan and writhe.

Her eyes go shut for a moment, and when she opens them, she sees him staring down at her, looks at his bare torso, sweat-sheened now, and beautiful, his body tense, the arm by her side flexes and unflexes, and she feels it, feels herself reaching her peak, pressure building inside her, so much she can't control the way her body moves and shakes, she feels herself falling apart, coming undone from the inside out.

"C-close," she cries, and he grunts in relief, murmuring _Thank god_ into her ear, and in a matter of moments she cries out, her muscles spasming, contracting around him, pulsing hard, her orgasm is fierce this time, and pulls him in with her, into the waves of pleasure.

He must have been waiting for some time, because her orgasm has barely started when he cries out "God" and "Fuck" and "Oh Regina, what you do to me – I'm—"

She feels it, feels him coming as she rides out the orgasm. And nothing feels sweeter.

When it's over, they trade lazy kisses, and he moves to spoon her on the couch. And she takes it, takes in the comfort, the unexpected intimacy of the night.

It's late and well past dinner when they finally move off the couch, gathering clothes that have been strewn about the cabin. He's muttering something about this place coming in handy, glad his ranger suggested a storm shelter, and that's one thing she can agree with, so she nods, and tries not to think about the fact that she's leaving, and this night is over, and she will leave Robin with nothing, not even the memories of them.

When she fixes to leave, he clears his throat, and she looks back at him. He looks shy, uncertain.

"What?" she asks, a warm smile on her face.

"Er… When can I see you again?" he asks, "And take you on a proper date?"

 _A proper date._ He must know about Graham, doesn't he? She thinks back five days. Has she seen Graham in those five days? Perhaps he doesn't know, after all. Or perhaps he does know and doesn't care. Perhaps he's picked up on the lack of… affection between them.

But there is no proper date, for soon he won't remember this evening, soon he'll go back to being the man who lusts after her in private, completely unaware he had her in so many different ways, once upon a time.

This night has been too wonderful to sully, to watch the memory of it fade from this man she feels so much for so fast. So when he asks, she knows what her answer must be.

"Can you… Can you do Saturday?" she asks.

He grimaces, his head dropping to her chest. "I have to wait five nights before I see you again? Please don't make a habit of this; I'm already quite addicted to you."

She feels a sting behind her eyes she has no business feeling, and clears her throat. "I won't make it a habit. I just ask – just this week, give me space. Let's talk Saturday. But until then, perhaps we can…"

"...have a bit of a breather?" Robin asks.

She nods. "Give us both some time to see whether we want this. And I feel quite confident that in five days time, you won't much feel like going on a date with me."

He clearly doesn't agree with her, but he sees no harm in playing along and agrees. He'll pick her up on Saturday night, come right to the mansion and take her out for a proper drink and a proper dinner and then they'll have a proper shag after that.

She says it sounds like a fabulous date, and she finds herself wishing they could have it.

But in five days, he won't remember this night ever happened.

She curses herself, curses the blackness in her soul that made her think this curse was a good idea. Curses the fact that she's met a man who seems perfect, who she could have had, if only they had met before she had enacted such a curse.

She curses herself each day until Saturday comes, and then she curses her every move. She curses herself for thinking her plan to destroy everyone's happiness would ever give her any happiness of her own. She curses herself for her loneliness, curses herself for the cold, dark life she's doomed herself to live, curses herself as she hears the doorbell, curses herself as she opens the door, expecting to see Sidney or Graham on the opposite side of it, curses herself for having to relive another boring, mundane conversation she's had dozens of times before.

And then she curses for another reason.

Because it's Robin on the other side of the door, flowers in hand.

And oh, as that hand holds the flowers out to her, she sees the lion tattoo she somehow hadn't noticed that night. And perhaps that is how time no longer stands still, how he can see the curse the same way she can, how he can now keep his memories and not… reset, like the rest of the town. Magic should not exist here, and yet, perhaps finding her soulmate, uniting with him, was a magic that could not be suppressed, even in this world.

She wonders what this means, what disaster this will inevitably bring now that Robin will see the curse for what it is, but right now she can't help but smile back him, can't help but let herself feel the giddy anticipation of something new, something _real_ , can hope for at least a few moments of happiness – happiness she thought was lost to her all those years ago.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Happy birthday Hannah! This was originally one really long chapter but I split it into two. Chapter 3 is being edited, and Chapter 4 is on the way. Chapter 5 should be the end.**

 **Thank you Bea, as always. No one should read a damn thing I write before Bea gets to it. And thank you Allison and Jess, for reading this damn thing before Bea beta-ed it and also giving me lots of great advice. You guys are the best!**

* * *

There's more blood than expected.

Though, to be fair she hadn't really thought about the consequences of her tantrum, hadn't really thought about the blood that would stain her silk robe and run over her furniture.

It doesn't matter anyway.

She doubts she'll live long enough to see whether the stains will come out.

She doubts she'll make it to see the sunrise the next morning, actually.

She turns her attention to her bloodied hand, the skin barely visible through the harsh crimson of her blood and fractured pieces of glass. She flexes it, stretches her fingers, then makes a fist and releases, repeating the action over and over. The sharp sting of a hundred paper cuts overcome her as the glass shifts and cuts new, thin slices into unbroken skin, and as it splinters and digs further into her flesh there's a perfect complementary dull stabbing in her already open wounds as the shards are moving, shifting and slicing against raw skin, bloodied bits of glass clinking together inside her.

Pain on this level is overpowering, seeps into her mind and chases every last thought away, and so for a second her mind is blissfully free of anything else. But much like everything in her life, pain fades, dulls, disappoints and leaves her just a bit of room, just enough to let other thoughts and fears creep back in.

Thoughts of dark, icy blue eyes staring at her, looking at her so cold, so angry, so unforgiving. So different than the beautiful sparkling eyes that warmed her deep down to her very bones, thawed her frozen heart and opened her to love in a way she hadn't been before. Thoughts of dimpled smiles that made her feel like she was almost worth something to someone, like she almost mattered again.

Regina downs her whiskey in tribute to the life she almost had.

Christ, why won't he come back and put her out of her misery already?

Maybe he knows the agony she feels, if he wants to prolong it, wait until she's suffering, until the anxious knots in her stomach grow unduly tight, until she's vomiting and weak and bleeding out.

She looks to the nightstand, and thinks of the gun she purchased locked safely away. Such odd magic, in this world. She could still win, in a way. Die without much pain, knowing that she took herself out on her terms...

Regina suddenly decides that no, she won't kill herself. Not because she fears the hell that awaits her in death, but because she'd rather die by Robin's hands. Perhaps ending her will break the curse. And when that happens, will he get the recognition?

Will they fall at his feet and praise him for ridding them of the worst threat to their lives? For finally killing the Evil Queen?

Will they give him everything he wants?

She hopes so. He deserves it.

Regina pours a glass of whiskey into a rocks glass with her uninjured hand. She wills her uninjured hand not to shake, to stop quivering and trembling. For god's sake, she's the Evil Queen, quaking in her boots as she waits for a common thief to finally end her. It's pathetic, really, but isn't it somewhat deserved?

The great and powerful queen, who destroyed the lives of so many peasants, to finally be bested and killed by one of them. Yes, she'd rather this than be killed by another regal, another sorcerer or a mythical beast — no, a miller's daughter brought her into this world and a man of no greater title will cast her out of it.

God, what is taking him so long?

They spent just over a month together, wildly happy, in a honeymoon phase of sorts. A month of blissful companionship with someone who truly cared about her, who went out of his way to make her smile. He should have recognized that time stopped for everyone else in town, but honestly, when you are in that early stage of a relationship, that lustful, carnal stage, time seems to stand still anyway. When he would stop by her office to bring her lunch and beg her to lock her door so he could crawl under her desk and eat her out right there, while she sat in her chair and pretended to catch up on paperwork.

He never asked for anything in return. Was grateful for anything she gave or offered, of course, but never demanded it, never expected it, never tried to appeal to her sense of guilt or pity or even her sense of justice and equality to coerce her into returning the pleasure his mouth and tongue and fingers brought her.

It was unusual for her to have that, and she let herself get swept up in those moments. She found she couldn't keep herself away from him, wanted him all the time, in the alley behind granny's, in his car one night, in middle of her kitchen while dinner cooked away…

But it was more than just raw desire that drew him to her. It was the way he opened himself to her and trusted her with all his being. He trusted her with parenting decisions with Roland, valued her opinion on the particular troubles he was facing – from everything from Roland's apparent lack of coordination to the far more serious concern that he would not remember his mother properly. He trusted her with the details of Marian's life and death – the life she _thought_ she lived, at least...

Late one night, after a home-cooked meal at his house, after putting Roland to bed, he'd spoken to Regina about his late wife, the woman he had loved fiercely and truly in their short time together. He spoke of her heart, her beautiful, pure heart that never lost faith or abandoned others, that always saw the best in people. In this life, in the curse, Marian was veterinarian, and she had died trying to save a dead dog on the side of the road. Someone swerved and hit her while she worked, tirelessly, to save something innocent. Robin had relayed her tragic death with tears in his eyes, holding her hand and telling her how much it broke him.

Regina should have known then that a man who had such goodness and purity in his life was not for her. He was made for so much more, so much better than The Evil Queen.

She'd tried to guard herself from him, because she'd known it would be over soon, now. She'd known Robin would remember things eventually just like he'd eventually realize the town was stuck in an infinite five day loop, and it was only a matter of time before he realized it was a curse, and she was the culprit, and oh, she should've kept her distance, she should've ran.

But it was hard to not get attached, not at night when he'd hold her and comfort her in ways he would never know. He'd been kind and gentle in a way she hadn't experienced, demanded nothing, had not interrogated, just told her that he knew she was guarded, knew she was private, but he was here if she wanted to talk, because it seemed something was bothering her.

She told herself, over and over, to keep her distance.

But the month she spent with Robin, when they were together….before he came to her office panicked and frenzied, _that month_ had been worth living for.

But the little bubble they lived in burst the day Robin barged in her office, his eyes wild and tormented. He told her feared he needed to be placed in the psych ward, he was afraid that he might be a danger to his own son, and he wouldn't have that. But when he looked into her eyes after his rant, he knew.

" _I'm not crazy." He breathes out, relieved, "you...have you also noticed this?"_

 _She nods her head, willing tears not to fall._

" _I have, Robin. It's...hard to explain. But yes, we're caught in a loop, and —"_

" _Oh thank god!" he exclaims, throwing his arms around her. For awhile they say nothing, only embraced each other in silence. Then he pulls back, draws her into a kiss, and she takes it, returns it, she shouldn't, but she does._

" _For how long has this been happening?" he asks when his lips finally parted from her, one hand still in her hair and the other around her waist._

" _You...you need to sit down." she mumbles, her voice wavering, "This is heavy."_

 _He sts and looks up at her with soft blue eyes, waiting for her to continue.._

She'd told him right then and there that she used to be the only one who could tell time had reset — that he used to reset too. He had not believed her at first, until she'd reminded him of their date and how she asked him to wait _five days_ before seeing her again. And then suddenly her hesitance to see him again, her insistence to wait _five whole day_ s, and her shock when he'd shown up on that fifth night makes sense.

He'd wanted to investigate, to drive down to the capital and have the town studied, surely there was something, was it poison? Was she immune? How did _he_ become immune? They had to solve this.

" _It's my fault." she says with a sigh, "I did this, Robin."_

He'd been difficult to convince. Almost impossible, it turned out. Magic didn't exist in his mind, in their realm, so it was difficult enough to even explain the possibility of a curse. But what was surprising to her was that he refused to believe that even if magic did exist, that the woman who held his child at night was the woman who had cursed an entire town.

He believed that she was too good, too true, too wonderful to do this. He'd told her that five years — if it _had_ been five years — was too long to be on one's own, stuck in this hell, and that he was half crazy after noticing this for a few days. Of course she had blamed herself, he had said to her. She needed to blame someone and blaming oneself is the easiest way out.

He cared for her, and he would prove to her that she didn't cause this mess, certainly not intentionally, and he would prove to her the past she had invented was only a convenient nightmare she believed to be true

She let him try.

What else could she do? And for brief moments, she wondered if she really truly did dream it all up, if it was possible she were a victim of this nightmare all along.

But he'd been restless, spending nights in the library, researching for any record of mass memory loss being recorded in any area of the world at any time. Looking for an answer, for a cause, and for a cure, consumed him. He'd told her he had to do this for them, but also for his son, and for the people.

If he found nothing he would risk leaving town and trying to find someone to convince to come into town and study them, perhaps an outside medical doctor or scientist could discover why the town was like this, what had happened… it was a risk, but it was all he had.

" _Robin Hood." She says his name clearly, out of the blue and braces herself, wondering if possibly his name is the trigger._

" _What?" He asks a twinkle in his eye, lips turned up into that adorable half smirk, "What did you say?"_

" _Robin Hood. You were, before this, before we were moved to the land without magic, you were Robin Hood."_

" _Hmm, was I the cartoon fox or the man in tights?"_

" _Not funny. This is serious."_

" _Regina, I cannot imagine how difficult these years have been on you, but please, try to stay with me. I'm not Robin Hood. I just share his name. And you're not an evil queen. You're just the mayor. And a beautiful mayor, i'll add."_

No amount of convincing would work.

She'd considered letting him keep searching for a cure and then burning out, perhaps they would continue to live together as the universe moved to its own special clock and they to their own - being uncursed in a cursed land.

But she couldn't bear to see him like that.

So she enacted a plan to free him and break her heart all at once.

She asked for him to come over to her house, just him, asked if John could watch Roland for the night (this wouldn't take all night, but she knew very well that Robin wouldn't be in a state to care for his son after learning the truth about her, about him, about the town). He immediately responded _of course_ with a wink and a smile, and she hated that he was so happy, so excited at the prospect of her sharing more.

The night he came over, she opened the door for him, knowing she was sealing her fate _._

 _In her hands, she held her most valued possession. Daniel's ring. She finds herself unable to let it go, unable to keep herself from rolling it between fingers. She is dreading what she must do tonight for so many reasons, and one of those reasons is after tonight, she will never hold this ring again._

" _I want to. I want to tell you everything. But...first…" Tears sting at her eyes._

" _Regina, what is it?"_

" _First...Let me see your hand," she says, her voice shaking and somber._

 _He looks confused, his brows knit in a frown before he releases those facial muscles into a playful gaze. "I don't think that's my size," he grins, pointing to the ring._

" _I can't get you to believe what I tell you. It's impossible with your memories lost, the way they are. I'm not sure why they didn't come back to you the way the rest of the curse did...but…" her hands rub and stroke and soothe his own._

 _God, she loves his hands. She would miss them, so much._

" _Do you trust me?"_ _She asks staring into his eyes intently._

" _Of course I do, Regina, I don't just trust you," he looked so confused by the question, as if it were one she should have known by now, "I know going through...what we're going through has emotions out of wack, but there are a few things I'm certain on, and one is the way I feel about you, and, Regina, I lo— "_

" _Stop!" Her eyes went wide. She knew he was about to tell her he loved her and she couldn't hear those words, wouldn't, not when he was about to learn the truth of who she was, about to learn just how intensely he hated her._

" _This is the ring my fiance gave me," she says, rubbing the ring in her hands, "it's practically all I have left of him. I loved him. And lost him. In his name I did unspeakable things."_

 _She takes the ring, and inhales sharply._

" _I'm sorry."_

 _It isn't his size. She can just get the ring past the first knuckle of his pinky finger._

 _Still, it works. She feels the magic explode, a powerful boom washing over him._

 _It was only then she realizes she is still holding her breath._

 _It is so fitting that the only object in this world that gives her comfort was also the only object that held the magic required to break the spell. She is unable to stop looking at it, and watches it crumble and fade into dust before her eyes, a victim of the magical spell she had just enacted._

 _All magic comes at a price._

 _And then she wills herself to be strong. To look at Robin._

 _His jaw is tight and locked. Eyes so cold, so angry._

 _He jerks his hand away sharply, as if her very touch burned him._

" _You." he gasps, eyes incredulous, "You….are the evil queen."_

" _Yes," she responds, swallowing heavy, taking a moment to transform into what he needs her to be. She paints her face with the expression he would find on the evil queen, plastering on that fake, coy smile, those cold, dark eyes, but oh, how her voice shook when she added, "finally you see me for what I am."_

" _You're a monster — an absolute monster!" He stumbles out of his chair in horror, knocking it over in his rush to stand up and move away from her. The chair knocks over as he jumps out, and the sound of the chair tipping and falling against him seems to anger him more. He grabs two legs of the fallen chair and lifts and throws it hard against the far wall. The chair smashes and breaks against the wall, puts a hole in the drywall and causes a few nearby picture frames to break. Well then._

" _And you had me — you let me bed you, and then you had me fiddle around with research, you let try to find a reason for this god damned curse and you knew — you knew!"_

" _I tried to tell you!" she responds, can't help but defend herself, "You were so pigheaded you —"_

" _And why was I so pigheaded, your majesty? Did you make me that way when you wrote my life in your curse?_

" _I didn't write your life. The curse filled you in. I didn't even purposely take you here."_

" _Well thank you very much for making me an unintentional casualty!" he cries, "My son - my son will be four forever, he will never learn anything, he will never progress, you did this."_

" _I...that was…" she sighs, shakes her head, wills tears not to fall. "I'm the Evil Queen. Why would I care about children of thieves and transient workers?"_

 _They entered into a staring contest then, he's calling her bluff, and she's staring back, willing herself to stay strong. There's no use, none at all, in apologizing, telling him what's in her heart. It would just make him conflicted, just make it harder in the end. He looks like he's searching her eyes for something — a glimmer of a lie, some sort of weakness. She tries not to show her hand._

" _You fucking vindictive, evil, witch. You ruined our lives. You should pay. You WILL pay."_

 _She realizes, then, that this is the moment it is over for her. The moment he will kill her. There were no shortage of deadly weapons around the house. Kitchen knives, heavy, pewter candlesticks, and hell, she's small and defenseless without magic (looks even more so in the clothes of this world, no thick, bejeweled dresses with strong collars to hide her small frame). His own hands would do just fine in ending her. It would be almost poetic, wouldn't it?_

 _But instead of beating her, torturing her, or killing her, he just storms out. Walks right past her and out of her house, shutting the door on her. As if to say he was giving her her life back — a life of unbearing, unending loneliness._

 _She'd rather accept her death than face that kind of life again._

 _She self medicates with ambien and whiskey in order to facilitate the sleep she needs to come. But when she passes by her bedroom mirror she catches a glance at the face staring back at her. So pathetic, puffy, wet eyes, tear streaked cheeks, that quivering lip…_

 _She smashes that full-length mirror to bits with her own hand, over and over, until glass is everywhere and there is nothing left to smash._

It's been moments since her tantrum, and she's finally feeling that gentle haze brought on by the pills and alcohol.

She empties the glass in her hand. The sharp burn hits her tongue first before trailing a path of fire down her throat and mixing with the smooth, smoky sweetness that fill her tastebuds. So sharp, so satisfying.

She will miss whiskey.

She feels sleep pulling at her...fading in and out of consciousness as she drinks, consumed in thoughts of _him,_ of their lives together, of what his life would be after hers was gone.

"Regina? Oh god, Regina, what have you done?"

She must be farther gone than she thinks, because she hears someone who sounds a lot like Robin, feels his hands on hers, lifting the empty glass from her hand, cursing and grasping at the elbow of her maimed arm and turning it.

"Regina, Regina, god, why did you do this, your hand, the blood….you're hurt, so hurt…"

His voice fades in and out as she struggles to understand what is going on.

"What does it matter to you?" She manages to ask, fighting to keep her voice from slurring, "You're going to kill me anyway."

"Kill you?" he asks and he sounds upset, worried, but she must be misunderstanding him because he adds, "Regina, I would never — I _could_ never. Why would you think that?"

"I'm the Evil Queen," she reminds him, and then cackles bitterly, "you'd be crazy to leave me alive."

"Enough!" he begs, "Downstairs. _Now.._."

She's tired of fighting. So she lets him lead her, lets him place that hand on her back and walk her downstairs. Lets him guide her to the kitchen.

"Come." He directs her to the sink, it's still running (he must have turned it on at some point).

He sticks her hand underneath the faucet, and she winces as the stream of water pushes against the shards of glass inside her. She hears small clinks as bits of glass are washed off her by the steady current of the spicket.

"God, Regina what did you do?" he mutters again, not looking for an answer.

He leads her to the kitchen table, sits her down in her usual chair. Her mind is still clouded, her vision is blurry, and she's not quite sure that this is even real.

"Do you have iodine? Rubbing alcohol? Tweezers?"

His memories from the modern world helped him after all, it seems he had some sort of plan.

"Medicine cabinet," she slurs, and then she shuts her eyes.

She could sleep standing up, right here. Instead, she feels a hand behind her, pushing her and guiding her somewhere. When it stops, she feels pressure on either shoulder pushing firmly down, urging her to sit.

She does.

"Stay there," he orders.

She does _not_ listen to orders. Does not, should not. But she's tired. Her fight is over. And the chair is comfortable, and warm and familiar.

It's a fine place to die. She opens her eyes enough to see she's at the kitchen table, then plants an elbow on the table and rests her head into her good hand.

She hears him coming back, hears him jostling some random objects he must have picked up from her medicine cabinet, and maybe from the kitchen. She hears the clinking of a plate, or a bowl.

"Give me your hand," he barks, and she gives it to him willingly.

For a while they are silent. He focuses on her injuries, picking out bits of glass by hand first, and then, when there are only small pieces, he uses tweezers. He drops each shard, each tiny sliver, into an empty bowl, the steady sound of glass hitting ceramic the only noise between them.

That and his frustrated sighs.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks, her eyes finally opening as he turns her hand palm side up to complete his task.

"Doing what?" he asks, his brow furrowed, lip bit in concentration.

"Fixing my hand. We know what you have to do."

"Will killing you help anything? Will it break the curse?" he asks, eyes never leaving her mangled hand.

"I don't know. Possibly." She replies truthfully.

"I have questions. I need you to answer them," he says right before pulling out a shard that has stuck particularly deep inside her, causing her to gasp slightly. He looks up at her. "I know you don't like to share, but under the circumstances, I think you owe me, don't you?"

"I won't beg for my life." Her response is guarded, far meeker than it should be, but if he thinks she'll answer questions under threat of death he's wrong.

"I told you, I'm not here to kill you," he responds, his eyes focused on the glass, brow knit, tongue peeking out between clenched teeth, "I'm here for answers".

She wants to protest, to fight, to be sassy and uncompromising. But she's hurting, and weak. And so, so tired of pretending to be strong.

How many decades has she fought to try to stay strong?

"Go on. Ask your questions."

"Why did you cast this curse?" he asks, he searches for her eyes, and she regrettably meets them. God, he has beautiful eyes.

"To destroy Snow White's happiness," she reminds him, "to destroy _everyone's_ happiness."

"But it's not so bad here, though," he presses, "When I didn't realize time was resetting, I wasn't at all unhappy. Even Snow, I recognize her, you know. She's the school teacher. She's not...miserable. But you, you knew time was standing still. I think you were the most miserable of all of us."

Regina winces as he picks out a particularly long splinter of glass with the tweezer.

"I guess I failed then," she says so clenched teeth, "as always."

"It makes no sense," he says ignoring her flippant reply, "A land of no magic. I know you, Regina, I got to know you over these last few weeks, and the moment I got my memories back I knew it made no sense. Your magic is all you had to protect you, it was your only weapon against those you felt wronged you. Why would you take us to a land of no magic?"

"True love, light magic, always bested me," she replies almost as if she is reciting something, "a land without magic protects against that."

The tweezers go still, and his eyes aren't on her hands, they are too focused on _her_ , her eyes, her mouth, the tilt of her head, the evasive movements of her face.

"I don't think you believe that," he decides, "who told you this was the curse to best get your revenge?"

She groans. He would find out anyway. "It was Rumple's curse. He taught me, he wanted me to cast it. But it benefited me."

"You don't believe that," he mutters, focusing on her tiny cuts and scrapes, "not anymore, at least."

"What does it matter what I believe now? At the time I wanted to take away everyone's happiness." She lets out a deep breath. "I'm a monster. You said so yourself."

"Maybe," he concedes, and there are no more words as he works over her hand, and she concentrates on the stead clink of glass into her bowl.

"Why did you break the curse for me?" He asks softly, grabbing a wet rag and dabbing her hand, wiping away the blood that hides more bits of glass, "And how? How did I notice the passage of time? What did you use to break that part of the curse for me?"

"Nothing" she croaks. The question reminds her of lion tattoos and passionate kisses and four letter words that they dare not speak, and it's all too much in her state. She gives herself a moment to look down, then schools her features into something more dignified, "I — I don't know how that happened."

He looks at her with raised eyebrows and tilted head. He doesn't seem to believe her. Still, he lets it go.

"Why give me back my memories? Why show me who you were?"

Hot tears sting at her eyes. She pushes them away.

"You were boring me. Wouldn't stop researching and babbling about the curse I figured I could shut you up."

"You know what I've been thinking, though? You could have used that bit of magic to make me forget. To make me forget time like everyone else. Instead you chose this. Why?"

She says nothing, focusing her eyes on her injured hand as if to avoid the question. She considered it, oh, how she considered it, but the truth of the matter was she was tired of this lie between them. It didn't feel right to keep it from him anymore. But this truth is one she will not reveal.

They sit in silence for awhile until it is Robin who breaks, with a frustrated sigh.

"I'm not going to sit here and pretend I haven't tried to figure out what piece of magic allowed me to see the curse for what it was. That it started…it could have started, the night we first...were together."

Her pulse quickens, and she pushes down whatever hint of hope threatens to bloom in her chest. This isn't going where she'd like it to. He still hates her.

He lets the silence becomes deafening before speaking again.

"I just don't understand you."

She can't tear her eyes away from her hand. Most of the glass is gone now. It's impressive, his work, but then again, he has the memories of a park ranger trained extensively in first aid, and the memories of a skillful, resourceful thief who battled guards and lived in the woods. It's safe to say he had experience with patching up related injuries.

So yes, he's done a fine job. There's still a lot of blood, dripping, dripping, dripping onto the towel below her, but she doesn't see glass anymore.

He takes the wet rag — once white, now stained bright red, and dabs at her hand again.

"These cuts are too deep, and I can't get out all the glass. We need to get you to the hospital."

Those words finally spring her to life.

"Over my dead body," Regina sneers, "I won't get in a car with you and I most certainly won't let any of the doctors or nurses look at me. I might be good enough to write a curse that teaches people how to drive, but I'm certainly not equipped with the knowledge required to write a curse that gives doctor's proper medical training."

She laughs bitterly at her own joke.

"Dr. Whale did a fine job stitching Roland up when he cut his knee, and arm, and head..." he sighs, "five years is a lot of injuries for a clumsy three year old who has to relive the same overly active day at the park. But you know about that, don't you?"

She knows what he's asking about. She ignores his directed question and focuses on the technicalities.

"The curse resets injuries in five days. We don't age, we don't change. In five days this hand will heal just as well as your son's injuries did, even without Whale's help."

She seems to convince him with that. Then he takes her hand, inspects it carefully, nods to himself, and then gets up from his seat. He dumps the bowl filled with bloodied bits of glass, washest the wet, bloody rag in the sink. And then, he starts opening cabinets.

"What are you doing?" she asks sharply.

"Do you have honey?"

"In the cabinet next to the fridge, why?"

He takes it out and places it on the table with the now-empty bowl, and looks at the variety of bandages available.

"First things first," he says, taking out the hydrogen peroxide, "this will sting."

She shrugs, "I don't fear pain," she says cooly.

He rolls his eyes at that, opens his mouth as if to answer, but shuts it, returning to his task.

He holds her hand over the bowl of bloody water and pours the bottle of peroxide over her hand.

Oh, it burns. And then her hand goes numb from the pain.

A smart response the body has to overly intense pain. Would her body go numb like this if it were burned alive?

"The worst is over," he soothes, and she hates her body, hates her face for betraying her and showing signs of pain.

He starts mixing a concoction in the other bowl, honey and iodine, it looks like. She's a bit puzzled as to what he's doing.

Once, she tortured a peasant she knew was responsible for hiding Snow White. She slathered him in honey and tied them to a tree, then let the bugs and the animals gnaw at him until she got information out of him. His wife found him, untied him, saved him, but he was scarred and sickly from the exposure. He never truly recovered.

Would this be her fate?

"This will draw out the glass I couldn't quite see," he explains, slathering the iodine-and-honey concoction, "and promote healing."

"Why?" she asks meekly, far too meekly. She doesn't elaborate, doesn't need to. He understands. And he will not answer the question.

"Roland had some serious accidents, all the time in the park," he recalls solemnly, "when it rained, that day, the day he had no school and I had the day off from work, we'd go to that little indoor play ground. He has had some bad falls there. When it was winter, we'd go ice skating and whatever clumsy, uncoordinated moment he was doomed to relive would surface. But do you know what I remember?"

"What?" she grits her teeth together. She knows.

"A curious thing, how often you'd show up at all those places and be there at just the right time to pick him up and prevent a fall. Wouldn't you say that was curious? Oh, you didn't always get there in time, but it was most times, wasn't it?"

She can't see the soft expression on his face, not while she refuses to look at him.

He wraps her wounded hand in gauze and elastic bandages and for a while, neither say a word.

"There," he sighs, looking at his work with some pride.

Her hand feels better, a bit better at least. She curses herself for the warmth that spreads over when she meets his gaze.

God, the way he looked at her. The way he still looks at her.

He shouldn't look at her like that anymore.

"Promise me you won't do this again," he stares at her intently, his hands stroking over her wounded one lightly.

"Why does it matter to you?" she asks.

He just shakes his head and lets out an exasperated sigh. He rises from his chair, and in the process leans into her, placing a hand on the back of her head and guiding it forwards so he can press a kiss to her forehead.

She closes her eyes the second his soft lips meet her forehead. It feels warm, and soothing, and somehow just a little bit electric.

But it's just a second, a quick thing, and he parts quickly, standing, moving back from her.

"Yes, well," he runs fingers through his hair, slicking it back and rustling it a bit, and god, he looks so lost, so conflicted, "I don't know why, i just can't see you hurt. And I — you know what? the reason shouldn't matter. It matters to me, and you owe me. God, Regina, you owe me, you owe me so bloody much, for what you did. So I am asking you not to hurt yourself. Understand?"

He's mad now, hand rubbing the back of his neck, eyes dark, glaring at her, and the weight of that stare is overwhelming and she can only nod.

He exhales slowly at that, and she sees his face tender before it hardens.

"And the other thing I'm going to ask you is to leave me alone. I don't speak to you, and you don't speak to me." He stares daggers at her, his eyes dark, jaw tense and squared.

"Understood," Regina says without looking back at him. She tries to keep her voice nonchalant, as if his declaration means nothing to her. But oh, how wrong that is. He has power, far too much power in the land without magic. He's crushed her heart and turned it to ash, without even needing to touch it.

He does not turn to look back at her after she chokes out the word. He just walks out the door.

She had expected him to kill her. So she doesn't get to be upset when all he does is promise to ignore her, to hate her from afar, to take himself away from her forever.

It feels worse somehow.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for all the wonderful reviews, I adore them. And thanks to Bea and Brooke for beta-ing, I adore you.**

* * *

She takes time off work.

She calls in sick while she licks her wounds. Spends time telling herself over and over again that she stays away from the outside world because her injured hand will draw questions, questions that she's too tired to answer over and over.

But the real reason she is holed up in her mansion has crystal blue eyes, a chiseled jawline, wears a slight, rugged beard, and one of the most aggravatingly sexy smirks she's ever known. The man who had made her feel the most comfortable with herself, made her feel valuable, the man who gave her all those feelings and now took them away, replaced them with dark, seething hatred. She isn't ready to face that.

But it's almost worse sitting in her home and waiting for something to happen. Everytime the doorbell rings, she expects to find him, or an angry mob of people he may have told about her. Instead it's Graham offering her some soup for the cold she's claimed she is suffering from, or Whale dropping off the new proposed budget for the hospital because it needs immediate attention and just can't wait. And she finds she doesn't much care for this, the feeling of dread, the feeling of waiting for something to happen.

Regina Mills is a woman of action, has never laid in waiting for danger to find her. She faces it head on, takes a running start and dives in headfirst, caution to the wind.

So on the fourth day, she readies herself for work, wearing a pristine, beautifully tailored pantsuit with a bright red silk camisole underneath. It's a bit hard to do her makeup and hair given that she is one handed and feeling a bit feverish, a bit shaky (not from her wounds, she tells herself, it's just a side effect of lack of sleep). But despite her one, shaking hand, she manages to make herself look presentable. She doesn't dream of wearing a more comfortable outfit, won't think of wearing her makeup or hair more casual. She needs to look like Regina Mills, town mayor, today. Needs to look like today is any other day, like she is strong, and confident and undamaged.

And she's succeeded. You wouldn't notice anything is different or wrong unless you were to look past the crisp cuff of her suit jacket to see the hand that peaks out from under it is wrapped in a flesh colored bandage. Few people will bother to look at her that closely.

She walks to Granny's to stop for breakfast at the usual time, and yes, everything is the same. She narrowly avoids bumping into a flustered Snow White, breezes by a preoccupied Archie, and stops to pet Pongo and scratch him behind the ears. Pongo barks happily, though his nose nuzzles against her injured hand, sniffing wildly and planting little licks against her bandages.

"Pongo, stop that," Archie says, as the dog presses against her further, "I'm sorry, he must smell food."

Perhaps he smells the blood of her hand, or perhaps he smells the honey she continued to use when she redressed the wound. Robin had found it acceptable, afterall.

Or perhaps Pongo, the only perceptive resident of Storybrooke, could sense she was hurting, and was offering her a friendly nuzzle of comfort.

"He's fine," she waves off Archie, who is tugging wildly at the leash, "Pongo means no harm, isn't that right?" She scratches behind his ears and smiles when Pongo wags his tail furiously.

She walks the rest of the way to the diner with her head held a bit higher.

The only difference in the day, as she can tell, is that she does not see Ruby wildly arguing with her Granny on the sidewalk. Regina wonders if she's late, if she's missed the usual stand off regarding the morning shift.

But as she approaches the diner, she discovers the reason for the change.

Ruby is distracted.

Robin is sitting at the counter, eggs over easy and bacon and toast, a mug full of what she assumes is coffee but hell, could be tea, and he's talking to Ruby.

Flirting with Ruby.

Ruby's leaning over, elbows on the counter, giggling and making those dopey eyes she knows so well.

Apparently she and her soulmate also share the same taste in women.

She ignores the dull ache in her heart (it has no right to be there) and focuses on a place to sit to be unnoticed. That spot by the corner is open, she won't be hiding from him, not completely. She will just be having her breakfast some place quiet.

She won't even need to walk past him to get to the table in the corner. Perfect.

But she forgets that the door to the diner is attached to a bell that rings, and god, she hates that, because the noise draws his attention instantly — eyes stare into hers, a deep, unabashed stare. She meets his gaze in time to see him swallowing heavy.

He doesn't break her stare until Ruby's voice pipes up.

"Madam Mayor! Take a seat!" She motions to an empty seat by the bar, her seat, the one they always reserve for her, and no, that won't do, not today, no. She won't sit in the seat right next to him. "I'll get your coffee ready. Fresh pot, right?"

She clears her throat, "Ruby, I'm going to sit over here, if it's just the same," she motions to an open table by the window.

"Sure, anyone joining you?"

"No, just need the quiet today." She grabs an abandoned newspaper off of a near table. Something to read. That's good. A distraction is what she needs.

Ruby smiles, gathers utensils and a menu, directs her to the table, and prances off back behind the counter.

Robin's eyes are back on her, dark and menacing. She meets his gaze with a stare of her own, and a sly little smile, because, no, she won't be intimidated. Not by anyone. Least of all him.

He breaks eye contact first to focus back on Ruby, muttering things that have her giggling and blushing. It's all for her benefit, she knows, can tell by the sideways looks he gives to make sure she's watching, to make sure she knows what he's doing.

She tells herself she doesn't care and focuses her attention on the crossword puzzle. It doesn't bother her, the way his eyes look Ruby over, the way his hand touches down her arm, the way he is looking at her ass when she turns around to the pot of coffee.

It doesn't bother her. Not at all.

"Madam Mayor, is this seat taken?"

Graham is smiling coyly, gives her a wink when her eyes peruse his form. She touches her hand to her neck, lets it wander down to her shoulder slowly.

"Yes, take a seat, Sheriff." Her tone is deep and sultry, such an innocent sentence should never sound so sexy.

They eat together, she and Graham. It could be domestic, but even with the history they share, the carnal attraction for each other, it probably looks like more of a business meeting than a romantic breakfast for two. The two of them...they just...there's nothing there, nothing below the surface. It's boring.

She wonders if this is how she will live the rest of her life. Graham as her companion, while Robin makes his way through the women of the village.

Or maybe not. Maybe he will stay with Ruby. Maybe she will give him everything he wants and needs. Ruby is a better person, with all her faults and moral failings, than Regina could ever be. And though looks may be deceiving, she's kind, good with children, and she's warm…

It's no matter.

Whatever he does with his love life, it will hurt, to see him navigating this life, this town, this world without an end. For eternity, she will see him make another happy, and have to live with the knowledge that she could have been happy, that she could have made him happy (what would it be like, to be the cause of happiness in someone? She had never made anyone happy in her life, try as she might), if only she had been brave enough to meet him before the death, destruction and chaos she caused. Before the young bride became the Evil Queen.

And what had it brought her? What was worth leaving him at the tavern that day? She had cursed herself into a life where nothing felt real, nothing makes her feel alive.

Nothing, but him, of course. And of course, she can never have him. Can only watch him break her heart over and over every day.

But perhaps it's better than being burned alive by the town. Perhaps it's better than death. Perhaps it will get easier as time goes by. Perhaps she will move on.

Perhaps.

"Do you want me to come over tonight?" Graham asks as his tongue darts out quickly to wet his lips, "Or are you...previously engaged?"

It's not yet been five days since he's seen Robin with her, she realizes, but he must not think of it as serious, not with how he's acting. She brushes his leg slightly under the table.

"My calendar is free," she says, drawing her uninjured hand up his arm (oh it feels wrong, so wrong, but she's never going to feel right, not with Robin hating her, detesting the very thought of her, so this will have to do for now).

She's knocked out of her thoughts when someone grabs her injured hand.

"How is it?"

She recognizes his voice immediately, even if she's never heard it sound so cold, so detached, before.

"Excuse me, Ranger, I believe that is none of your business," she says cooly, giving him a pointed stare.

He stares back menacingly, and snarls, "I need to speak with you. Alone."

"What's this all about?" Graham asks, "Regina, is this man bothering you?"

"He is," she says in that deep, confident tone, "but I can handle it myself. Excuse me."

She follows Robin to the back hallways of the diner, and she can feel the anger radiating off of him.

"I haven't seen you in days, where have you been?"

"Taking a much needed vacation," she answers at once.

He rolls his eyes, then his eyes wander over her, as if inspecting her.

"Your wounds, are they — are you feeling—- Regina, you look so pale." His hand flies to her cheek and brushes it delicately, and his expression is soft and he almost looks worried...but the moment passes, he draws his hand away sharply, as if remembering something.

"I have fair skin," she reminds him.

"Don't talk to me about your skin like I don't bloody well know what every inch of it looks like," he seethes. "You're not well."

"Thank you for your assessment, doctor, but I feel just fine."

"And so my life now, if you call it that, is to include you showing up and disappearing at random?"

"What do you want me to do? Keep notice of my potential whereabouts so you know where not to go to see me? Should I deliver you my future daily plans via carrier pigeon? Or maybe you'd like me to carry around a tracking device so you know how to avoid me. Or maybe I should wear a bell so if you hear me approaching, you know to go running in the other direction…"

"Enough!"

It's an angry whisper, one where he's clenching his teeth together so as not to scream. "I guess I'll just live my life, and you live yours, then," he spits the words out through clenched teeth and retreats.

Regina takes a moment to watch him walk back to his seat, takes a moment to mourn the loss of the only person she could ever dream of loving again, takes a moment to mourn that her life will once again be sad, and dull, and repetitive.

But she only takes a moment.

And then she returns to her seat with Graham, poised as ever, with a comment about how Locksley is upset about the budget cuts to the park department.

When he tells her what time he'll be over tonight she acts engaged and interested, but inside she feels cold and dark. It's all wrong.

Graham doesn't ask about her hand.

Does he even notice? Does he even care?

It doesn't matter. This is life now.

.::.

Regina falls back into her routine. Skips those mornings at Granny's, but everything else she keeps. And she doesn't see him. It's a small town, but not so small that they can't easily avoid one another.

And so for the next few days, they do just that.

Until one night, when the heavy pounding of her front door jolts her awake from her sleep, has her panicking and breathing heavy. She knows it's him on the other side of that door, continuing to slam away as she puts on her robe over her thin nightgown, slinks into slippers and makes her way down the stairs.

"Regina!" she hears his raspy roars from the other side of the door, between the steady pounding, and god, is he trying to kick the door in?

She unlocks the door and opens it just enough to peer outside.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, her eyes squinting into the moonlight, still adjusting from sleep.

She's opened the door less than halfway, and her body is blocking the entrance. It's anything but an invitation to step inside, but it doesn't matter to him, clearly.

"I slept with Ruby," he mumbles, and his arm raises above her head to grasp the door and pull it all the way open, as he pushes past her into her foirer.

Well then.

"Oh," she responds, as nonchalant as possible as she closes the door tightly behind her. She expected as much, she did. Still, it's a bit of a stab in the chest to hear, him telling her like this in the middle of the night. Yes, he's twisting the knife a little, but he's earned the right to intentionally hurt her, hasn't he?

"Well if you're bragging, I hate to inform you that's not all that impressive of a feat. Nearly everyone has slept with Ruby. Including myself, almost," she tries to keep her voice amused, steady, casual. But he's not really listening to her.

He turns to her for a second, moves towards her as she's backed against the door and mutters, "I felt nothing."

He smells as if he's practically soaked himself in a barrel of whiskey, and his breath stings her eyes, the vapors of alcohol he breathes out so strong, so powerful. God, she hopes he didn't drive here. He really should not be doing much of anything besides resting.

She knows what he means, though, by feeling nothing. Or at least, she thinks she does. Still, she won't acknowledge it.

"Perhaps it was your form of protection?" she offers cooly, "They offer a lot in this world, ribbed, extra lubrication…"

"Fuck off! You bloody well know what I mean, you — you —"

He points a finger at her, and she braces herself for the name calling, but it never comes. Instead, he just stalks off into her house uninvited and unafraid.

He steps foot in the dining room, then turns around, goes into the living room...then the family room, as if he's searching for something.

She lets him wander around, making her way into the living room with a halfhearted bored sigh. He rushes towards her, and comes close, closer than he would ordinarily.

"Did you sleep with him?" His voice is harsh and accusing, and she could get drunk off the whiskey vapors drifting from his mouth.

"Who?" she asks, trying to keep her voice unalarmed and detached.

Robin storms away, continues pacing around the house, entering rooms and leaving them. It's making her nervous. What in gods name is he looking for?

"Oh, don't give me that who, you know damn well who. The Huntsman."

Hearing him refer to him as the Huntsman shocks her a bit, but it makes sense. The Huntsman was well known to those who lived near and in forests. They probably clashed on more than one occasion.

"Is he here?" he asks, revealing the purpose for his half-hearted drunken search party.

"No," Regina says firmly. "He is not here tonight."

"Did you sleep with him?" he repeats, this time coming closer to her. His brow furrowed, mouth wrenched in a grimace, and his hand clenched in a fist. It crosses her mind she should be scared of him, based on his behavior. His muscles are tight and flexed, he's invading her personal space, and he's angry, so angry.

But she's not scared of him. She has no concern or even a bit of fear that he would harm her.

"Many times," she says, "you know I slept with him many times…"

"Since we were….together. Did you...did you sleep with him? After you were rubbing his god damned leg under the table at the diner, rubbing up his arms, did you go back to your mansion and fuck him, Regina? DID YOU?" He's panting heavily.

"What are you doing here?" she deflects, "You told me to stay away from you, to never speak to you again, what happened to that?"

"Answer the question," he snarls back, his face beet red, eyes now more wild.

He doesn't need to know. Shouldn't. She should refuse to answer the question.

But for some reason she can't deny him an answer.

He's angry, so angry, and if she isn't scared, she should be repulsed that he's forced his way into her home, ranted at her and made demands of her (after all, she's the queen) but she isn't repulsed either.

He's close to her, so close, and he's backed her against a wall. She feels her hips jut forward against him... and what the hell was that?

"Yes," she says firmly, looking into his eyes, "I had every right to, you told me to stay away, and it's none of your—"

But before she can finish her lecture on how he's not her concern anymore, his lips are on her, kissing her hard, and fiercely, and she gives back. He tastes mostly of whiskey, and then of smoke, salt, and a hint of citrus, a smattering of tequila and Robin.

His hands are greedy on her, one threads through her hair until it cups the back of her head and presses against it, pushing her hard into the kiss, the other slides down her back until he can grope her ass.

"Did you feel that?" He breathes the words into her tongue, and his hot breath tickles and warms her, sends a shock of electricity down her body.

Yes, yes she feels that. She doesn't answer, but he knows. He knows from the way her breath quickens, from the way her body just melts into that kiss.

"Does it feel that way with him, too?" he asks again, before he plants a sucking kiss against her neck, and she moans involuntarily. "Do you get to feel like this with everyone?"

He keeps kissing down her neck, one of his hands reaches underneath her robe to fondle at her breast, his thumb turns to stroke the nipple just a bit, and she lets out some sort of sound between a whine and a moan, she feels warm and aching all at once and it's….that's quite enough playing around.

She straddles one of his legs and rocks against it, as her hands fall behind his head to guide his mouth to hers. They kiss and he swallows her moans and whimpers as she moves against him, generating friction where she's achy and needy for it.

He gives her all he has, and they make out and it's needy and desperate and rough, but then he extracts himself, moves away from her, right when separating is practically painful.

"I asked you a question," he manages between pants. "Tell me, why does it feel different with you? Why has it always felt different with you?"

"I don't know," she answers, and it's almost honest, she doesn't know how the soulmate connection works, doesn't know why things have always felt different. "But I feel it too, only with you."

He nods at that, places a hand on either side of her hips and pulls her back against him, mouth rough and aggressive against hers, as if he's starving for her.

"You don't like it with him," he groans against her neck, "only with me."

She moans in agreement. It's not exactly true, she and Graham didn't reach the levels she reached with Robin, but it had been enjoyable. Except the last time. That had felt cold, and unsatisfying, and she had felt a twinge of guilt that she'd buried deep inside herself, because she wasn't cheating on him, he had left her, there was no reason to feel like she was betraying anyone.

"Tell me," he urges as his hands shift underneath her robe, under her silk night gown and cup and grasp her ass firmly, "tell me, you want me, not him."

She kisses him in reply. Really, that's the only reply he deserves. She should not be doing this, what is the point? To admit she's heartbroken and lovesick so he is smug and satisfied when he is sober and returns to ignoring her? She shouldn't say a thing.

"I want you; I don't want him," she gasps into the space between them, unable to suppress the words, no matter how much they will come to bite her.

He kisses her again, fierce and needy, and then he's lifting her up. She wraps her legs around his waist tightly, so tightly. Her arms follow, crossing around the back of his neck as their kiss deepens. She didn't think she'd have this, not ever, not anymore, and she damn well isn't sure how long it will last before he decides it's over for good, so she takes it, jumps into it.

"I'm going to have you on this couch right now," he says as he tears his mouth away from her, walking her towards said couch. "And then on the rug, and then on your kitchen countertops, on your dining table…"

She grabs his shirt to pull it off, hears fabric rip as she does. But before she can inspect the tear, he flops her down on the couch roughly and removes his shirt himself.

She licks her lips in anticipation.

And then he's on her.

It's not gentle, not measured, he's passionate and turbulent when he rips off her clothes, primal and greedy when he kisses his way down her body. He's ravenous and bold when he licks between her legs, drinks in her wetness, fucks her with his tongue and eats her up with moans of how good she tastes. He's unrelenting after she comes, won't listen to the telltale signs of too much and oversensitivity, keeps up on her, fucks her, until her body lets her enjoy it again, reaches that peak again.

It's different, different to the Robin she's used to, but not bad, and when he's made her come twice on his tongue he stands her up, has her bend over the arms of the couch, legs spread, and enters her with a moan and a Christ you feel amazing and fucks her from behind in hard and fast thrusts.

She thinks for a second as to why he's doing this - why he's balls deep inside her when he hates her (he should, after all she's done), how he can stand to be around her after everything. It crosses her mind that possibly, maybe, this is for him, just for him, but he adjusts his thrusts and the angle in response to her moans, breathes into her ear Is this good, love? And Is this working? and whispered words of God I want to feel you come and Please let go for me.

Maybe it's one last hurrah, one last time together before they part, forever, but whatever it is, she's damn sure she's going to stop overthinking it and just enjoy it.

She's not been taken in this way by Robin, didn't think it was a position she particularly favored (it wasn't her thing, with Graham), but in this moment, in this passionate tryst, it feels dirty and wrong and delicious and right all at once.

"Better than with him" he breathes between thrusts, "tell me, you know it is…"

She's too far gone at this point to play coy, her pride be damned. She can tell herself later she was too close, that she did not want him to stop, that she needed the release.

"Better than anyone," she gasps, "you feel so good Robin, best I've ever had."

He groans at that, mutters something that might sound like Me, too, then thrusts hard into her, and she pushes back harder, clenching around him tightly and screaming his name, begging him to fuck her harder, promising him anything he would ever want if he would just make her come one more time.

He doesn't let up until he does, and she can tell he's holding back for her, putting forth every last effort to get her where she needs, even though he's groaning and spilling out curses about how tight and wet and perfect she is for him, how it feels like she is made for him. He manages to get one more orgasm before he spills inside her himself.

He lays down on the couch and presses her against him, and they take a moment, just a moment, to enjoy being in each other's arms.

The realization of what they did, what they confessed (even in the moment) gets to her, and she starts to over think for a bit. She has not been this vulnerable or open to anyone in a long while. She's not the young, innocent girl she was when she had Daniel, she hadn't dived into the pool of darkness yet when she had Mal in that way. It's confusing, frightening, to feel so much for a person and have him know exactly how much he means to her. She can't protect herself from him, not in this world. Truly, she could not protect her heart from being broken with all the magic in the world.

But she doesn't travel down that hole of dark thoughts too long, because he's pressing kisses against her, and god, she still has a nightgown on (her panties and robe long discarded) and he's ready for more, pulling her down to the floor. And that edge of fear, the little thrill of not knowing where this is going or what will happen next or even when she will last see her, has her wanting him again desperately.

"Already?" she asks, and he moans in response, and dips down to suck and lick at her neck.

"I can't get enough of you."

She runs fingernails down his back as they kiss, and she feels how he shudders and flexes against her touch. It thrills her, excites her, and suddenly she very much wants to feel him hard and inside her again.

But he's not quite there yet, not entirely soft, but he isn't hard enough to fuck her right (at least not enough to fuck her hard, and that's what she needs right now, what they both need). So she pushes him down so he's lying on his back and slides between his legs.

His pants are off, but boxers still on, in his haste he hadn't quite removed all his clothes. She pulls him out through the hole in his boxers and gives him a few firm strokes. And then she tilts her head, looks up at him with a smile, and wets her lips with her tongue.

The action must embolden him, because he groans, "God, do it, please fuck me with your mouth", and the sound of him, like that, so worked up, is too much to deny him or tease him anymore. She wants to, in that second, too badly to deny either of them a moment longer.

She wraps her lips around his cock and swirls her tongue around the shaft as she takes him in deep, gives him a strong suck, then licks back up before releasing him with a wet pop. She feels him getting harder in her hand, hears his heavy breathing. She looks back up at him and meets his eyes with a coy smile, then returns to her task.

This was never her favorite thing, not before Robin, but something about him, about pleasing him, having him moan and groan, the way he seems to cherish her (not now, now he hates her, possibly wants to kill her, what the hell are they doing, anyway?)...something about doing this to him has converted her. She takes him in deep enough that he hits the back of her throat with each thrust, and he shudders and sighs with that, as her tongue licks up and down in a steady rhythm with each pass of her lips, and she creates the suction she knows drives him crazy.

He has a hand on her now, fingertips just touching through her hair, and he's caressing her cheek softly. He's fighting the urge to take her head and press her into him, she knows he is, and he's doing a good job, restraining himself admirably given the fact he's drunk out of his mind right now, and it only makes her want to make him feel more.

"Shit," he mutters regretfully the moment after his hips jut forward, pushing himself in deeper into her mouth, so he hits the back of her throat. It's not...uncomfortable, somehow, not at all. Perhaps it's less so because she can hear the regret in his voice.

She just continues to suck and lick, humming in response to his exclamation, hoping to communicate that he hasn't hurt her, hasn't taken them out of the moment. But the vibrations of the humming must drive him wild, because she hears his soft curses and feel his body go rigid, the hand stroking her cheek goes tense and freezes.

When she stops the humming he lets out a whoosh of air, and his hands go back to stroking her face and scratching her scalp. She grabs him at the base of his cock and starts taking him in her mouth in smaller, firmer sucking strokes.

"Regina— mm— love it when you do this, your mouth is so— fuck— "

She's been sucking him through the hole in his boxers, and it's suddenly too much between them. She wants him naked, stripped, and completely hers. So she moves off his cock, revelling in the groan that comes out of him when her mouth parts from it, and grabs the elastic waistband of his boxers and pulls them down, He moves his hand and lifts up to help her, taking them off.

The boxers hadn't truly hidden anything, but somehow the sight of him completely nude and so hard and ready for her excites her even more. She circles her index finger and thumb around the base as a guide, and then takes him in deep, so deep, all the way down her throat.

"Oh, god— Regina! Please don't stop, please."

There's something about this time, maybe the desperation, the feeling that this will all end that has her wanting to push the envelope this time, makes her want to experience as much as she can, and perhaps that's why she can do this, why this, of all things is turning her on. This, taking the sign of how attracted he is to her in her mouth and down her throat, hearing his moans between the babbling string of compliments and curses he's spewing, has her growing wet and needy, has her shifting a bit, searching for friction where there is none.

"Mm, Regina, love, get up here. You should— oh fucking Christ— Get...please I wanna feel you come on me again."

She wonders if possibly he's noticed her state, and perhaps his request is a bit for her as well as for him. Still, she takes him in a last time, deep down her mouth, gives him a firm suck (she feels him pulse at that, feels the vein in his cock jump just a bit, and god, he's close) and then releases him with a loud pop. He moans at that, and when she looks up, he's urging her up on him.

She nods, not needing to be asked twice, and straddles him, positioning herself right above where he wants her, and the feeling is mutual, she's ridiculously turned on, more so than someone of her stature should be over just giving a blow job, but, well, these are extenuating circumstances.

She grabs him and guides him inside, lowering herself slowly and watching his face, the way the muscles of his jaw flex, the way his eyes shut tight, the sound he makes, just how he reacts to feeling her.

She'll miss that.

She takes him all the way in, sits for a moment on top of him, her legs tightly tucked on either side of his torso, and she's still very wet from their first time (her own wetness mixing with his come) and from the moments she had her lips around his cock, but the feeling of him inside her, the feeling of him stretching deep inside her, that excites her like nothing else. It stretches and fills her, and she adjusts until he is hitting against that place, the place that throbs and aches and sends shivers down her spine when she feels him against her.

He bites his lip and opens his eyes, and mutters an Oh fuck why do you have to look so bloody gorgeous riding me like that? And it thrills her that she has that effect on him, still, after everything, and she smiles in return.

His hands go to her hips, and slide up her side, swiping towards her front to cup at her breasts, muttering a fuck, I love your tits into the space between them. Robin is all gentle caressing of palms and soft strokes of fingers that drive her wild, and she lets out an involuntary moan that almost sounds embarrassing. But he encourages, breathes out a Fuck, you love having your tits played with and then an I love it followed by So bloody gorgeous.

A particularly strong thrust in just that spot overwhelms her, and her body flings forward, crashing down on him, and she drops her hand from his chest to the floor, hovering above him for a moment of pure, delicious sensation before her face falls into his.

He pulls her in close and kisses her deeply as she continues to rock against him, picking up the pace as they swallow each other's moans. Her legs ache a bit now, but she feels herself getting closer and closer, muscles clenching around him, and he's hard, so hard, so desperate for her, she can feel it, feel it in the way he gropes and grabs at her, how he kisses her (deep and passionate and a bit sloppy).

He breaks their kiss to tell her that she feels bloody amazing and she can barely answer "You too," before she feels herself reaching that peak and toppling over, her muscles clenching and releasing against him as she feels the warm, tingly sensation of her orgasm overtake her.

"God I love watching you come," he groans, and then, manages between gasps, "You look so sinful, so sexy, god, what you do to me…"

His words always seem to intensify what she's feelings, give an added kick. She never knew how much she'd enjoy this type of talking during sex, how much it thrills her and drives her over the edge, but well, it's one in a long list of things she never knew about herself until she met Robin.

Robin flips them, just then, which is good, because she came hard enough to make her limbs feel loose and useless, and she hasn't exactly been giving him the movements he needs to finish. It's a quick, harsh flip, but a confident one, and god, he has that hungry look in his eyes as he enters her swiftly and fucks her hard.

"God you're beautiful….so fucking hot...god, Regina, I'm going to…"

She scratches up his back like he likes, feels his body tremble and shiver, and then she feels him pulsing, the familiar feeling she knows is Robin spilling inside her. They might not have been together long in days, but she'd known him better than any of her past lovers, enjoyed him more than anyone, and yes, she loved him, loves him, and god, let this not be the last time.

He collapses next to her, and wraps his arm around her, kisses her sweetly on the neck and whispers "Mine" into her ear.

She hums in agreement, though she's not quite sure what he means. And she finds herself snuggling into him, as if they were any ordinary couple in an ordinary relationship. As if Robin didn't hate her, as if this may not be the last time she ever sees him. She shuts her eyes and pretends that things are different.

When she wakes she is on the couch, unsure of how she got there. Her neck is a bit stiff, her skin a bit irritated from the romp on the rug, but she feels the sweet ache of their activities and it almost makes up for the discomfort.

Except, Robin isn't next to her.

For a second she lets dread wash over her, assuming he got up, dumped her on the couch, and left her life for good. That part may be coming, but she's not ready for it quite yet.

And then she hears him curse softly. His voice is carrying over from the kitchen, she thinks.

She resists the urge to run into the kitchen and check to see if he's still there. She doesn't get to be excited that he hasn't left yet, especially when that part could be coming at any moment. So instead, she grabs her robe off the floor and wanders into the powder room to wash herself just a bit. She's still dripping from him, a bit sticky between her thighs, but it doesn't quite bother her in this moment. It reminds her of those moments they just had, moments she will be sure to replay in her mind to carry her through the next however many years of misery she has left.

He's in the kitchen chopping up vegetables wearing nothing but boxer briefs (not exactly a safe for working around a hot stove, but Robin has never shied away from dangerous things). A frying pan is out on the stove, and there's a carton of eggs out. There are bits of different vegetables on the chopping board, and at this moment he is attacking a pepper with a large knife, but the cuts are all wrong, pieces all different sizes. Apparently the curse had not quite made him a chef.

She raises herself onto the counter next to him and steals a particularly fat sliver of red pepper and brings it to her lips. She doesn't miss the way Robin's eyes follow it and focus on her while she chews.

"What are you doing?" She asks, not hiding the amusement in her voice.

"I'm starving and I want some eggs," he points to the carton of eggs "and I was going to make an egg scramble, but it appears my coordination is a bit off…"

Shit, that's right. He's still drunk. How the hell did he drive in this state?

"Here, let me take that," she offers putting a hand on the knife to take it.

He doesn't give it to her, holds tight to it instead. Their eyes meet, and suddenly she realizes he may not want her to have a sharp weapon in her hands. So she releases her hands.

But he takes the hand his knife is in and moves it towards her. She does not flinch, does not resist. He holds the blade to her throat for a second, and she closes her eyes, not in fear, but in a sort of peace.

It's odd, but not even for a second does she believe he's going to kill her. She should, god she should, he's drunk and impulsive and has a temper, but no, she doesn't think he will kill her, or even harm her. Not anymore.

She opens her eyes and looks at him. He wets his lip with his tongue before sinking his teeth into his bottom lip hard. She bites hers in response. There's desire in his eyes, she recognizes it, and maybe a glimmer of something she doesn't want to place.

He drags the knife down her neck, following the deep V of her robe, sloping down her neck to her chest. The blade is caressing her skin, not cutting, and there's something erotic about the movement, the cool, heavy feeling of the sharp object in his hand, his hungry eyes, the tickling of the slow movements against her skin giving her goosebumps.

When the blade reaches the end of the V in her robe he takes the knife away in a quick movement and brings it back to the chopping board. His eyes focus on hers and don't leave her.

She reaches again for the knife. But this time, he lets her take it easily.

She holds the knife to his cheek, and draws it down to his neck. He offers it to her, stretching and tilting his head to make it easier for her. She smiles at that, and draws the knife carefully until she reaches the nape of his neck.

She grabs the knife and stabs it hard into the wooden cutting board.

They stare at each other a bit, a new realization for both of them at the level of trust they both have for one another.

He puts his hands on her knee. Then he smoothes up her leg and palms her thigh, tugging at it with a bit of force.

She bites her lip and looks at him for an explanation.

"Open your legs." HIs voice is heated, and it's so damn hot she has no sassy comeback or witty retort on her lips, just a quick nod before she's complying, opening her legs for him and sighing softly as he moves between them and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into a kiss.

It's not the last time. Hardly. It seems barely possible, the amount of times they come together in every sense of the word, over and over in their desperation, in their pain, in the conflicting, intense, overpowering emotions they have for one another.

.::.

They lie in bed, sweaty and exhausted after a night (and early morning) of debauchery. There was no talking, no discussions on what this meant, just carnal lust pinning them against each other over and over, feeding them until the first hints of dawn.

They'd collapsed into one another, passing out for a few hours before the warm morning light seeps in through half-opened drapes, prying Regina away from sleep.

She's tangled up in him, her legs caught between his, an arm caught underneath his neck (his hand is under her side, her face pressed against him). Under different circumstances it might appear they were holding each other in their sleep, but that intimacy, that sort of affection they had for one another is gone.

She feels a sharp sting on her arm and looks down to find that she it had bled last night just barely, just pinpricks of red dotting inside the deep red streak. She remembers the way her hands dug and clawed into his back when he pounded into her deeply on the counter, her sex swollen and still sensitive from the overstimulation of far too many orgasms. It had all felt so good, and yet there had been that slight edge of pain, of too much, that had made her maybe want to stop for a moment. But then he had pushed her over the edge, her sore muscles contracting deliciously around him, and the pleasure had had her scraping and clawing at him, that hint of discomfort be damned.

He had reacted...oddly to that. Let out an excited, sexy moan and thrust into her deeper, harder, groaning and spilling out curse words, and words of praise, of love even at that moment, and god, she felt herself coming again just from the way he reacted, fireworks exploding behind her eyes as he chased his release and spilled into her.

But that was last night, and this is the morning. And they will have to deal with their wounds, with the destruction she's caused.

She tries to move so as not to disturb him, but they are too caught up in one another for that to work, he grunts when her legs try to free themselves from his, and then he's pulling her in closer, kissing her forehead, and god, how can he just kiss her forehead?

"Where do you think you're going?" He rasps, and then, "Fuck, my head kills."

She frowns at that, breathing him in and noting the smell of stale liquor that must be seeping out of his pores.

"You should have let me finish making those eggs," she muses. Probably shouldn't have slept with him. He was drunk, angry and confused. She all but took advantage.

He extricates his arm from under her, shakes it a bit (it must have fallen asleep) and wipes his hand over his face.

Then he chuckles, and shakes his head.

"No, I wasn't hungry for eggs last night," he retorts, and then, as if he's reading her mind, "I have no regrets over my decision to forego our midnight snack. Or any other decision I made last night."

Still, he's wincing when he says the words, and then lifts a hand to rub at his forehead.

He's in pain.

"Let me get you an aspirin," she offers, pulling herself up and off the bed. Her muscles are aching and sore from collapsing into sleep in an improper position, and from the exuberance of the night's activities. Plus, she hadn't had a sip of alcohol last night but she feels just a tiny bit hungover and dizzy. She didn't properly hydrate during that sex marathon, but who has time for water when she was fucking like it was her last day on earth?

She puts on her robe, (it had oddly made it up here, though her nightgown and underwear are a different story).When she returns with the aspirin and a glass of tepid water, he's sitting up in sorts, propped up on pillows and rubbing his temples.

"Who has Roland?" she asks timidly, handing him the water and pills.

"John," he answers bitterly, "he's been taking him a lot these past few days. I've been….well, not a great parent." He swallows the pills and takes a big sip of water before slamming the glass on the nightstand. "Not that Roland will remember me being a shit parent. Not in a few days, anyway. Right?"

"I"m sorry," she concedes, unable to meet his gaze for a moment.

"You are, aren't you?" he asks skeptically, "When did you start to regret...all of this?"

"Somewhere in the second cycle of the curse," she answers without a moment's hesitation, sitting at the foot of the bed. She draws her legs under her, feeling quite exposed in front of him, odd considering she had been naked spread eagle in front of him a few hours ago, without a hint of embarrassment. She hesitates, and then clears her throat. "Your son..., there's no amount of apologies, nothing I can say...but my promise I regret it, and if I could undo it, no matter the cost—"

"He has no memories of the time we share," Robin reminds her, "he loses everything we had every five days, almost everything else, I can take, but that, I just…"

"I know," she concedes, "It was never intended for any child, certainly not for yours."

He doesn't answer, and the silence grows.

"I deserve to suffer for this," she gives, wearing a face so colored with regret he finds it hard not to scoop her in his arms, "If you want revenge…"

He shakes his head, "I thought I did. When I think of him...I do, I want revenge. But then I see you, and I know you. You aren't the person that would cast this curse."

She smiles bitterly, "But you see, I did."

"A version of you may have, but that is certainly not the person that is here now. I could never even wish harm on you. I care about you, more than you know.."

"You shouldn't."

He frowns, looks at if he's about to argue, and then changes the subject.

"Are you going to tell me now how you managed to break me out of that loop? How did you make it so my mind can see time pass?"

"That part wasn't me," she responds, "as I said before."

He stares off into the distance, his expression pensive.

"Why did you give me my memories back, Regina?"

She takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. She focuses on the fabric of her bedding, playing with the downy softness beneath her.

"I didn't want to lie to you anymore. I wanted you...I wanted you free."

It's the truth. And he knows it is, has clearly known it for so long.

When she raises her eyes to look at her he's smiling at her, and no, he should not be doing that.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" he teases, "Answering that question honestly, I mean."

"Do you actually believe me?"

"You keep forgetting I have all my memories. I have them all. I've seen the men you've killed, and the children you've rushed to save from even the most insignificant injuries, I've seen you burn a village to the ground and I've seen you work quite hard to ensure this town thrives, I've seen…" he takes a moment to study her face, look her over, "So many contradictions. I don't understand you, not completely, but….somehow I trust you, and I can't do this alone, Regina, I can't — being the only one who can remember anything? I don't know how you did it without going mad, honestly…."

She can't quite figure out what she might have done to give him the slightest cause to trust her, but she knows, she'd watched him lean into her as she held a knife to his neck last night. He trusts her. Against all odds.

And then she remembers he is her soulmate and realizes that perhaps this isn't real afterall. Perhaps the reason he trusts her and loves her is not of his choice. Just another curse, tying him to her unfairly. But that magic she cannot take away from him. He's stuck.

Unless she gets him away from her.

"You don't have to be alone," she says just above a whisper. "But I know, it might not be any better to share your time with the monster who started this mess, so— "

"It doesn't matter who started this anymore," he concludes, "I can't blame you, not anymore. I don't look at you and see the evil queen. I only see Regina. And I know, I know you are both, but now, I'm tired of fighting myself for how I feel. I'm angry at you, I am, but it doesn't change what I feel for you."

"So," she chews her lip, finishing her earlier thought and pushing aside his words, "I have a solution for you. You shouldn't have to live in this loop, and neither should your son. Perhaps - if you cross the town line, leave the town? Perhaps you could escape the curse. And if you cross, well...you'll escape this hell."

He reaches up and grabs her hands, rubs them together in his, staring at the way they fit together, like every part of them seems to.

"Why didn't you leave, all those years ago, if you know life exists outside of this?"

She shakes her head, "I can't leave. I created this. This is— it's my world. I need to be here. In case anything ever threatens it."

"You would care if it burned to the ground?" he asks softly. Her ears burn in shame, for she knows he is referring to the villages she burned before.

"I guess...I guess I would care," she acknowledges with a little sigh, "I created this. This is mine. It's….there's a certain sense of pride, and of responsibility, I…."

He purses his lips and blows out a puff of air. "It's like your kingdom, not a small village on the outskirts of town. You were always proud of your kingdom, weren't you? Made sure there were jobs and food and orphanages and the like, yeah?"

She shoots him a puzzled look and so he adds, "It's one of the things that always confused us, your hunted outlaws, your fearful subjects, how you could be so ungodly cruel and yet care so much about your subject's prosperity."

She gives a slight nod. "Yes, well...this is the way I wanted to run things, or would have run things, if the people would have let me. I can't leave them. I'm the only thing that keeps things running, and who knows what would happen with weeks without me." She scrapes her fingernails along his palm then turns his hand over and gives it a pat. "But you can leave. You and Roland."

He stares at her a little, his expression soft and sympathetic. They stare at each other, and they know, know that this is what he must do. Despite how they feel about each other, he must leave. Must take Roland and go, and start to live a real life.

The rumbling of his stomach interrupts their moment. It's enough to make them both laugh, his cheeks redden as her face changes to a lighter expression than she's worn in quite awhile.

"Do our bodies still reset every five days?" he wonders out loud.

"Yes" she says, cocking her head slightly, "we don't age. Every five days things reset." She holds up her previously injured hand as proof. There's not a single scratch left. "Why?"

"Can we gain weight?"

She laughs at that, giggles, full on laughs, and gives him a wild, excited look that says she's considered this before.

"We cannot," she says, "our bodies reset to their previous shape after five days. Why?"

"I'm about to run to Granny's and order two of everything on the menu, and we're going to eat it here, and ...you've done this before, haven't you?"

"I've had five years to make the most of this town and exploit any aspects of the curse that I can. Do you notice I have pancakes for breakfast quite a bit often for someone with my figure?"

He smirks at that, and then he's asking her questions of her favorite meals, and she shares how unbelievable she found the food in this world when she first crossed over - so much more flavorful and bold than the meals of their world. Even royal feasts did not have the decadence of ice cream, the creamy, richness of risotto, the complicated nuanced flavor of a well-seasoned marinara sauce.

She tells him, quite casually, that of course she was never permitted to eat the better tasting foods in their past life, for her mother had been fearful she'd grow plump and fall out of favor with prominent suitors, and staying thin to stay in people's good graces became somewhat of an obsession. Being able to ditch her diet was one of the most pleasing aspects of the curse.

He soaks in the story, shares some of his favorite foods of his own (admits with his memories back, he much prefers Granny's cooking to John's, and a hamburger will be better than touch deer jerky any day). And then it seems they are for the first time, sharing a part of their true past. It's...nice. Open and honest, at least. And then he kisses her on the lips and gets out of bed. He's stark naked, looking a bit befuddled and scratching the back of his head.

"Ahh…" he mutters, looking around the room for something. His clothes perhaps.

She knows, though, can remember that his clothes are all in various rooms throughout the mansion, but to be honest, she's not sure of the condition of those clothes. Images of ripping and tearing fabric flood her memory.

She lets out a chuckle and goes to her closet, fetching a set of men's sweats and a tee shirt. "Not your style, but it will do," she smiles, tossing him the clothes.

He grimaces, "I don't want to wear his clothes," he says, pouting earnestly, but so adorably.

"I bought them for him, it's true," she answers, but then points to the tag, "but he never wore them. So they are yours, not his."

He frowns, considers, and then nods.

"Let me shower so I smell a bit less like a distillery and then go pick us up breakfast. Alright?" He presses a kiss to her brow, and waits for her to make a sound of agreement.

"We'll have breakfast, and you'll tell me every last detail of this curse. How it works, what you've learned… everything. I need to know." His stern tone, that serious glare he gives her, it shifts the mood into something dark and solemn, and she realizes that all the pancakes and breakfast foods in the world won't lighten or sweeten the conversation they are about to have.

"Understood," she says, and she doesn't dare break his gaze.

And with that he makes his way into the shower to get ready for what will prove to be a very long day.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks for everyone who is still here. This is just a short chapter. I had planned for this to be a 5 chapter series, but I think it's going to end up being 7-8 if I keep doing short chapters like this. But we're close guys, we're close.**

 **Special thanks to bea ( verkaiking) for being a terrific beta as always, and all my writer buddies who kept encouraging me to post.**

* * *

When Regina gets out of the shower she's first hit with the scent of bacon, then with the sweet smell of what may be pancakes and syrup, savory undertones of fried oil mixing with the fresh crisp aroma of citrus. She imagines Robin must of ordered quite an assortment of breakfast foods from Granny's.

Her stomach rumbles at the thought.

Regina towel dries her hair and clips it back, decides to put on another nightgown before changing for the day, and pads downstairs in clothes that make her look very much as she had the night before — fresh faced, stripped down, warm and beautiful.

Not that she sees it herself.

She enters the dining room to see styrofoam containers everywhere. There's a large order of pancakes, a side of scrambled eggs and bacon, and she sees a sandwich she believes to be a BLT, along with two greasy burgers and a container that is just full of fries. There's also a fruit salad, and two large slices of blueberry pie. Robin is helping himself to steak and eggs, grabbing a few fries and adding them to his plate.

He motions for her to come over.

She grabs a plate and fork and fills her plate with pancakes and eggs and strips of bacon.

He's smiling at her as she picks her food, and she finds herself smiling back.

What are they doing?

"I'm still mad at you," he says while chewing his steak.

"I know," she responds, not meeting his gaze.

"I still have questions," he adds, "whether I leave or not, I think you owe me answers."

"I do," she agrees cooly, pretending to be focused on cutting her pancakes, "so ask."

"I want to know how all this started," he says simply, taking a sip of coffee as if it were the easiest question in the world.

"How I cast the curse? It was Rumple's curse, I —"

"No, not that. Before that," he urges, "I know you don't like to share, before, I never tried to push you, but now…"

"If you're looking for a way to justify any of my actions, you won't find them in my past." On this, she won't yield.

"That's not why I'm asking. I don't doubt that there's something Snow did to force you to do those things, but I still want to know. There were so many rumors in the kingdom. Did you seek to kill her because some saw her as prettier than you?"

Regina laughs, "My least favorite rumor," she waves her hand, "no, Snow's beauty did not threaten me." She sighs, "Snow told a secret of mine."

He raises his eyebrow confused. "What type of secret?"

"The type that ended up getting my true love killed. Daniel." She frowns. It's so hard to explain the offense Snow committed in words. "She told my mother about him, though I begged her not to. He proposed, he gave me…" she fiddles with her hands now, as if imagining the ring was still there.

"Daniel was the one who gave you the ring," Robin finishes. "But your mother killed him, not Snow, why did you —"

"You cannot blame the lion for being a lion." Regina's eyes go stern. "But the handler, who lets the lion out of his cage and throws raw meat in your direction…. he can be blamed."

"Your mother was a lion?" It's an honest question, and she can tell he wants to know more, wants to know her story. Still. Despite everything.

"She lost most of her humanity before I knew her," Regina says of her mother, "vindictive and cruel, incapable of love. And Snow all but painted a target on Daniel's back in one simple conversation, despite being warned against it."

"What did your mother do to you?" His voice lacks any accusation, just an innocent question layered between warm, comforting timbres and soft blue eyes.

For a second she feels her walls crumbling, threatening to come crashing down, leaving her exposed and fragile and vulnerable to attack. But those walls were built up over decades to be strong and and withstand the most gruesome of battles, and though they shake and sway, they do not fall. She won't fully open herself to the kind, beautiful man she's in love with, not now, not when part of her still believes he's too good to be true, a Trojan horse. A trap in disguise.

Regina shrugs, then her mother's voice creeps inside her head and tells her not to slouch, not to make weak gestures like shrugging, either, to stand tall and state with conviction and strong words exactly what he wishes to convey. "She made life... unpleasant," she settles on. And then she plops a French fry in her mouth, letting the crispy fried goodness surround her, her own reward for dredging up memories that were far more painful than she feared.

"She killed the man you loved," he starts, "and…?"

"And then gave the King permission to marry me. Though I never gave that same permission myself."

"The Good King," Robin says, using that fitful title, "The Good King took you as his wife, and —"

"Ah, yes, such a _good_ King. I knew him as the Good King all my life, you know. He was older than my father. He was older than most fathers of an eighteen year old girl. Nearly the age of some grandfathers, in fact. But yes, he was very good, the King. He instructed me to be Snow's mother, but in his eyes that meant I was to be her plaything, her nanny, her cheerleader, her warrior, her escort... her maid... and I was to fit into a little box and be packaged up anytime she had no use for any of those roles."

"You were also his wife," he questions gently, "and the queen, surely you had some —-"

"Every day I served the needs and wants of the child who ended my happiness forever," she interrupts, "And what is a queen but a servant to the king? I never felt like much else."

"You did not want to marry him." It's hit him, and he's a bit shocked. It's understandable. He's grown in a world where they are told it's every child's dream to be a queen, rich and powerful. And who desired power and wealth more than the Evil Queen herself?

"No, I did not."

He won't ask what was done to her in that marriage. He won't ask because he is from the Enchanted Forest. He knows what is expected of a queen, and he knows what happened. The wince in his eyes gives it away, he's thinking of it, she can tell, picturing the her teenage body underneath suffocatingly thick sheets while she catered to the needs of the Good King. Nights where he'd stroke her cheek and ask her to be a good girl, where he'd be so soft and gentle, and yet, the time she refused he would just as sweetly and gently remind her that she did not have a choice, and all she had to do was strip for him. All she had to do was let him gawk and poke and stroke whatever part of her flesh he fancied most that day. All she had to do was open her legs and close her eyes.

It would all be over faster, he'd say, if she wouldn't look so upset, if she remembered how happy he made her, that she was the queen, that she wanted for nothing. All she had to do was stop crying, all she had to do was kiss and suck where he wanted, all she had to do was take him inside any part of her body he requested with a smile and a _Thank you_. That was all.

"Stop that," she instructs, her eyes narrowed, angry, "that's the least of what I went through. It's the way of our world. My situation was hardly unique. The worst of it did not hold a candle to losing Daniel, or hearing the rumors and gossip of the peasants, or the…" her voice wavers a bit, "or knowing I mattered to no one."

"Was there no one?" Robin asked, his eyes pleading, "they said you made your father your servant, did you —"

"He was my valet, but it wasn't what you think. The only way I could get him inside the palace was to hire him. And, yes," she pauses and thinks of her father's eyes the moment she crushed his heart. The image is fresh, will forever be fresh, as the scene haunts her dreams nearly every night. "He did love me. I was a fool and did not recognize it. It's complicated."

"What—"

She is shaking her head before he can get out the question. She's promised to tell him everything, and has no right to refuse to answer whatever he has asked, and yet she can't. She's not ready.

"Please," she nearly croaks, "please can we not talk about my father right now? Just for now, if we do, I just— you won't speak to me after I tell that story, and you deserve to know more about the curse, so we can help your son, and—"

She can feel the salty residue trickle to the apples of her cheeks. It feels like warm, liquid betrayal, feels like losing the battle she had fought so hard, and she tries to will them back inside her eyes even though she knows magic does not exist in this world. She can't erase what he's seeing.

"Alright. No more talk of your father for now." he gives. He's inched closer to her, must have dragged his chair closer to her when she was willing tears to stop, and now he's there, holding a hand inches to her face before he stops himself from touching her. "Something lighter, yeah? So there's a land outside this town that isn't cursed?"

"Yes, past the town line. I wrote into the curse that no one would ever desire to leave town, so you see, no one has ever ventured out there. Except me, of course. But there is no barrier. When you step out of town, though, the clock starts to run. Actions have consequences."

"Will you show me the town line?"

She nods, taking a shaky breath in, "Yes, I — I can't guarantee crossing will have no ill effects, though nothing has been written into the curse and nothing has happened to me when I cross. But while there is no physical barrier, there's a magical barrier you must cross. And all magic is unpredictable."

He is so hard to read right now, his face so expressive, so clear he is feeling so much, yet she can't pinpoint the emotion radiating off of him. It doesn't appear to be anger. Disappointment? Resentment? Confusion?

He speaks after a moment's pause. "Anything else I should know about the curse? Will it—has it harmed someone?"

She shakes her head, "No ill effects besides memory loss. And of course I had David in the coma, but that wasn't a negative effect of the curse. I wrote that into his fate."

She stares Robin down and waits for him to admonish her, but he does not.

"Is there any way to prevent a memory from being erased?" His voice is a bit hopeful, and she knows why. _Roland._ God what a mess.

She takes in a deep breath. "There's... there's some tricks to it. Your memories, those leave after 5 days. But if you talk about something that happened four days ago, tomorrow you will still remember the conversation you had about the incident. It's... I learned that the hard way, unfortunately."

Robin looks at her inquisitively, then swallows hard. He remembers, she thinks.

"You and Graham, you uh… had a night in public."

Regina fights the urge to crawl under the table and focuses on keeping her voice steady.

"You have to understand, I was just trying to feel something— anything! Some sort of thrill, some sort of pain or pleasure, or…" she shakes her head. "So there was, maybe the thrill of getting caught in public. And, yes, one dark night against the clock tower, I decided to see if exhibitionism would help me feel things. And an unusual, unfortunately timed party at Granny's let out at the wrong time, and several people may have seen us... in a compromising position."

"I was one of those people," Robin says, shifting a bit in his seat. He chews his food a little tenser, jaw clenching tightly. "You know, even then, I was pulled to you. I didn't much like that you were with Graham, but seeing you….half-clothed and disheveled was never something I'd regret seeing, I guess."

Regina rolls her eyes. "I thought, it'd all be fine, in five days no one would remember. But the rumors persisted. Until I finally spoke out and asked if anyone recalled actually _seeing_ this happen, that it was an unsubstantiated rumor unless someone could tell me they saw it with their own eyes…"

"And no one remembered actually seeing it." Robin finishes for her, Regina nodding.

"Yes, I remember that now," Robin muses. He's silent for a minute and then asks, "How many people have you slept with in this town?"

Sh chuckles darkly, reaches for a glass of orange juice but doesn't answer.

"Regina?"

"You don't seriously care about that of all things, do you?"

"I gave you a pass on the father stuff. This, I want to know."

"Fine." she runs a hand through her hair in some fidgety attempt to soothe her itching nerves, "Slept with during Enchanted Forest time, or post-Curse?"

"Let's start with Post-Curse," Robin says, with an agitated sigh. In other circumstances, his jealousy might be cute, but now it's just... puzzling. Why does he care so much about her past lovers, when he should be fretting over her past murders, her past victims?

"Two," Regina answers dryly. "I've slept with two people post-curse."

He looks shocked at that, his jaw nearly unhinged and falls to the floor. "I don't understand, why—"

"When I cast the curse for the Dark One, I was promised things. One, that I would always win. I always win, people don't argue with me. They don't pick fights. They back down and yield to my every desire." She gives him a pointed frown and a raised eyebrow, "do you see how I may find that… difficult when it comes to proposing sex?"

He seems a touch confused, his face screwed into those worry lines, his brows knitted in some sort of pensive pose, and then he speaks, " _I_ didn't always let you win, though."

"No," Regina gives, "that was... perplexing. We never really fought, not much, but you never conceded anything. You are the only one. Except for maybe Gold. And that made... that made what happened with us easier. That and the fact you approached me."

"That, I did." He smirks at the memory, and his face is changed into something light and innocent, as if in that moment they are transformed into the couple they once were, before they were forced to accept truth about the life they were living. "You said you almost did, with Ruby? Was that just talk or...?"

Reginna does not talk about sex, did not expect to talk about this of all things today, and she feels heat blooming in her cheeks, feels her eyes glue themselves downward. "I asked if she wanted to join Graham and I in the bedroom. I was desperate to try something satisfying, and Ruby… well. She is... pleasing to me. And her cursed self is very sexually… free. So I asked, and she agreed too easily," she says softly, "and then I realized: it was the curse."

"Maybe not," Robin mutters, "she likes you. I told her I slept with you, and she freely admitted she uh, as she put it, would love to get you to spread your legs for her."

Regina lets out something that might be considered a _giggle_ , if she were the type to giggle. But the light airy sound leaves her quickly, and her face goes serious again. "But you see, the curse could make her want that. And even if she wants that… she could change her mind on any given day. Except the

curse would have her agree to anything I asked. It wouldn't be her choice."

"It was Graham's choice?"

"Graham and I were together before. I have no doubt this is something he wanted. But if I was wrong— if I wasn't what he wanted, I could live with it, knowing I had taken _him_ without full consent. But not a woman. Not Ruby."

She brings her head up and locks eyes with him, almost defiantly. She's waiting for him to tell her he's disgusted, to say something about her sexuality, something she's heard before, but the revelation that she likes women and has only slept with one man during the curse does not seem to phase him in the least.

"Why did you make Snow White a school teacher?" he asks, the shift in the conversation causes her to laugh slightly.

"Doesn't she seem like the type? Like she'd just love to make bird houses with children all day, like she was born to sit behind a desk and praise children's artwork, like she would actually be quite competent at teaching children to read and write, and explore—"

He's smiling triumphantly as he's won something. But why?

"Yes, exactly, Regina. You gave her a job she seems to enjoy. But isn't she supposed to be miserable? Wasn't that the whole point?"

Right.

Regina winces, feels the truth she kept hidden from even herself surface. She pushes it back down. "I wanted the town to run smoothly. I had plenty of other ways to make her miserable. I didn't have to give her a miserable career, too."

He frowns at that, a look of disbelief, and she knows he wants to say more. Instead he just asks, "Why did the imp want this curse cast?"

"I don't know. He would never tell me," Regina admits, biting her lip and grimacing.

He frowns again. She doesn't know if she likes _this._ The way he asks questions and seems to give a judging thought to the truth of each answer, the way he doesn't argue with her but doesn't seem sold on what she's saying. But still, he asks more of her.

"Tell me something, then. How do you think the curse broke for me, and when did it break?"

She's been dreading this question since the moment he told her he deserved answers. She yearns for some distraction something to delay telling him this truth if only for a few moments. But there is nothing. Just dead silence and ever She relents, "I don't know the answer to any of those questions."

Robin slants his eyes and studies her. She has to break their staring game first (his eyes are beautiful, too beautiful, too trusting, too hypnotizing. They are dangerous). He seems almost pleased when she looks away, declaring "Bullshit. You may not know, but you have a good idea."

"I don't."

'Hmmm…" Robin says, making a bit of theatre in his response. "Do you want to know what I think?"

Regina doesn't answer.

"I think it was the night we were first _together_. That night in the storm shelter?"

She fights the shiver that goes down her back and tries to keep her voice from shaking. "What makes you think that?"

Robin sighs, elbows on his the table, head resting in his hands as he collects himself — as if he's struggling to stay calm. "You told me that light magic had a habit of breaking your curses, did you not? Well I think you were onto something, there."

Her chair falls away. She's dangling in mid space, without an anchor, about to fall free into nothingness forever. He is close, too close to finding out something he should not. She doesn't want him to know this, yet she won't lie to him anymore. Well, maybe just one more lie. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He loses it then, and slams a fist on the table. The whole thing shakes, reverberates around her, rattles plates and containers, and a few forks slide and move precariously close the edge of the table, threatening to fall off. It's a violent action, and unexpected from Robin. It's as if he's finally had it, as if he's finally reached the end of the line with her.

She should tell him to get out of her house, to leave. If he can't accept her (half truthful, hidden, guarded) answers, then he should stop asking them. But Regina cannot utter a word. She just stares back at him, speechless.

"Oh come _on_ Regina! You feel it, don't think I don't remember you bloody telling me you felt it last night. I wasn't _that_ drunk. And I feel it, too. So let's call this what it is, Regina. What we both already know. It's true —"

She finds her voice then, just in time. Just in time to prevent him from saying the words he cannot. She reaches out to cover his hand with fingertips. "STOP. We barely know each other. It can't be that."

Robin lets out an exasperated groan and falls back on his chair, eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. "Then what is this, Regina?"

He's not going to stop until he knows.

She gives up. When she stands to walk over to his chair, she might as well be waving a white flag.

She was going to grant him one final peace, but he just wouldn't let her.

Regina reaches for his arm, and he gives it to her willingly.

She touches it delicately, turning his palm over and stroking up his wrist, caressing the tattoo with a reverence she knows takes him by surprise.

"When I was a young queen, I was told it was possible I could lo— that there could be happiness for me, again. With my soulmate. A fairy... she... her name was Tinkerbell. She tried to show me who that man was. I never saw his face." She traces the tattoo with delicate fingers then, "but I did see his tattoo."

"It was me?" he asks, incredulous and shocked, but not all together as mad as she'd think he'd be, finding out his soul was tied to that of the Evil Queen.

"Fate is cruel," she responds.

"What?"

"Your soul is tied to me. And I'm — I'm only going to bring you down. It's what I've done until now."

"We're soulmates." His mouth is upturned in a half-smile, his eyes have just the right amount of sparkle, but she still can't believe he'd be anything but grief-stricken by this news. "Fate isn't cruel. It's just... mysterious. There's a reason we're tied together, Regina. And we found one another. How unlikely is that?"

"You're tied to a monster," she reminds him. He has to know he is. "You need to know— I didn't know this of it when we slept together. I just knew you were different and did not think of any reason why. All these years, Robin, and I never saw that tattoo. If I had, I would have stayed away, I would never have…"

"Don't say that," he interrupts. It's so forceful and honest and sincere she just can't take it. Regina stares at the watermelon in front of her instead. Such a curious fruit, the texture should be displeasing, but somehow...

He cuts through her thoughts. "Hey, look at me, never say you would have stayed away from me again, alright?"

Why is it suddenly so hard to meet his eyes? Why does she feel licks of shame dancing up her face, thoughts of _You don't deserve this_ and _This is not real_ playing on repeat, telling her to hide herself from this, because this is not for her.

Regina wills herself to look at him anyway, because to not do so is weak.

"Alright," she gives. "What else do you want to know?"

"I think that's enough for today." Robin stands and stacks some empty styrofoam takeout containers, and makes quick work consolidating leftovers into a few open containers.

"Oh," Regina says, "when you have more questions, you can —"

"I'm not leaving, Regina. John has my son for the day. I just think we've had a long night and a long morning and we deserve sometime to rest."

"We just woke up," she reminds, not because she's not thoroughly exhausted, but because she's no right to.

"Did we sleep? It seemed more like we blacked out." He sees her try to argue and adds, "Knocked unconscious from too much pleasure for you, of course. For me it was the drinking."

She snorts and rolls her eyes. "You weren't that good."

He raises his eyebrows, "Oh, sure I was."

She arches an eyebrow, does her best not to immediately concede this point. He _was,_ though.

"We both were." He amends. "Anyway, it's been an emotionally draining day and I had quite the workout yesterday. And, I'd just like to hold you for a bit, so can we lay on that couch together and see what sort of entertainment is on that television device?"

His words aren't sweet, aren't soft or meant to be touching, but they are anyway, because he's the first in so long to ever want to just _hold_ her. After knowing what she is, what she's done, she figured no one would ever want that again.

She gives a shy smile and looks at the clock. Time in this world is almost meaningless, but it has _some_ meaning. And she has time.

"Did I mention I am fond of this land's magic?" He asks, flipping the tv on with the remote.

"Not magic," Regina corrects, but he waves her off.

"Details, details. I enjoy the _technology_ of the modern era. Better? Now, come on." He pats the couch beside him, begging her to sit next to him.

She does, sitting stiffly on the opposite end of the couch. She wants to give him space, lest he reconsider his decision to let them vegetate _together._

But it turns out he truly wants the Evil Queen wrapped around him, for he reaches out and grabs her, easing her against his chest as he leans against the couch.

"We fit together," her murmurs into her ear, "have you noticed how it just... feels right?"

Regina thinks of his tattoo and wants to cry, or laugh, or run.

Instead, she stays in his arms and says nothing.

They don't speak. She thinks she dozes off for a while, but cannot be sure. She knows Robin falls asleep, hears his light snoring and the steady resting heartbeat against her ear.

All the while his arms never release their hold on her. They wrap around her possessively, but instead of feeling trapped she feels wanted and whole and yes, though it's impossible and unfair, _loved._

He wakes underneath her ever so gently, and she does not even notice his soft snores have stopped until she feels the way one of his hands issliding up and down her belly. With each sweeping motion, he ventures a little higher, a little lower, until one sweep has him reaching up to and cupping her breast. He gives it a small squeeze, then releases, running his hand along her side, down past her hip bone.

His touch feels wonderful, and she cannot help but arch into it. She bites back the little breathy sounds of pleasure that fight to come out. He doesn't need to know how much she needs him already.

"You're so gorgeous," he whispers in her ear.

They are delaying the inevitable, but she spins in his arms to face him and kisses him hard.

He's stone cold sober now. When they pull away, his eyes are focused, and wide, and she can't hide from them. It's harder to convince herself that this means nothing to him now.

He urges her back and readjusts them so he's sitting on the couch, with her on his lap, facing him.

His thumb traces slowly over her lips. It's a light touch, but her skin tingles and fizzles under it. Her tongue darts out to lick him, and she revels in the muffled groan he makes at the contact, the way his eyes shut tight and his head tosses back. She loves the way he reacts to her.

He claims her mouth, tilting his head to exchange heady kisses with her, hands roaming all over his body like he owns it.

"So beautiful," he groans into her neck. "Every inch of you is so beautiful."

He's probably caught up in the moment. Probably woke up from a sex dream and wants to use her like a warm body….

But no, not when he's looking at her _that_ way.

She knows this is different.

It's not hurried or rough, the way it had been yesterday. It's slow, and gentle, and delicate. As if he worships her.

He kisses down her neck, little open-mouthed pecks. On an odd kiss his tongue swirls against sensitive skin, and she almost burns from the amount desire he has for her.

"Love, can I…" he trails off as he hooks a finger under the strap of her nightgown. It seems absurd to ask permission after the sexual olympics they just had last night, but she nods anyway.

His hand is pressed against her back, supporting her, as his mouth traces her curves, dampening each inch of exposed flesh with loving, gentle kisses. He teases her, works her up, has her rocking and thrusting her hips on his lap, searching for some sort of friction as his tongue circles around one nipple, and then the other. They are stiff, hardened peaks now, sensitive and dying to be touched, and god, he knows how to touch them.

He draws his lips over her nipple, plants a wet kiss over it, and then moves to the next plants the same soft lick over it. And then he's blowing over them, and the feeling of his husky breath over tingling, wet breasts is almost too much.

"Robin, please…" she asks.

"Shh, I got you," he assures. He's kissing between her breasts now, taking little breaks to kiss the undersides of each swell. He adjusts himself, slides back against the couch and juts his hips forward, then urges her a bit forward, so her sex is lined up with the bulge in his sweats.

She grinds against him aggressively, kissing him deeply, little moans and sighs spilling out freely. She deepens the kiss, and her hands search for the hem of his shirt, tugging it and pulling it off.

His pace doesn't seem to match hers, his movements aren't as hurried, his touches not as forceful, kisses not as deep and bruising.

He loops an arm under her ass and breaks from a kiss.

"I want you in bed," he says, before lifting her with him (god, he's strong, and quick, and she loves when he takes charge). She doesn't see the need for the venue change, but he feels nice, his movements are confident, and it's _sexy,_ so she wraps arms and legs around him and lets him carry her up the stairs and into her bedroom.

She imagines from the way he kisses her that she'll be thrown down and fucked on the spot, but instead he lowers her slowly onto the bed, softly as if he were handling something gentle, something precious…

Robin is on top, elbows bracing his weight so as not to crush her. He kisses her slowly, tenderly, dots her jawline with kisses, and draws languidly down her body, caressing up and down with such _intimacy_ it knocks the breath out of her.

Something feels... off.

"What are you doing?" she asks, it's near a whisper his head is between her thighs now, and he's kissing and licking up her inner thigh.

"I think it's quite obvious," he breathes into her flesh, as he shoots her a teasing glance.

She wants to argue that he knows what she means, that she's referring to this odd pace, to the soft touches and burning gazes he's giving her, to this new level of… something she can't place.

"Just feel," he begs as he swipes his tongue across her folds, "shut off your mind for a moment and just let me take care of you."

Those words should bother her, should make her cackle and laugh and throw him across the room. The queen needs no one to care for her. And certainly no one should order her to do anything.

But he's talented with his tongue, and he's reaching spots that make her weak, and she can put off this argument for later, she can.

Now she can do as he says and just enjoy the way those slow, purposeful licks stoke the fire of her arousal, how she is climbing with purpose towards that edge. When he dips two fingers inside her, she's already not thinking, just arches into his palm as he fucks her in steady, tempered movements.

And he's whispering things like _Beautiful_ and _Lovely_ and telling her how _good_ she tastes, how _warm_ she is, how he loves it, how he loves all of this so very much. He's moaning into her sex, sounding just as riled as she has become, and all she can say in response is _Yes, fuck, like that,_ and _Oh god, love when you do that._

He takes his time. Her efforts to rock into him faster, to move his tongue and mouth against where she needs him, they all fail. Yet he still gets her there, has her dangling precariously over that precipice, before she finally -finally- falls, shouting his name as her thighs tremble and clench around around his cheeks.

He lets her ride out her orgasm, muttering words of encouragement into sensitive flesh, fingers slowing with each thrust, until she shivers when he swipes his tongue against a now too-sensitive clit.

He draws back and shifts to lay next to her, kissing her deeply.

She loves the way he tastes after going down on her. Perhaps that's... egotistical. Perhaps it's a bith uncouth to admit, but he tastes delicious, and he taste like _her,_ like he's a part of _her,_ and there's nothing sweeter, nothing she loves more, than these gentle reminders that they belong to one another.

She reaches between them, then, wanting to feel even more connected. She gives him a soft stroke and he groans at the contact. He moves on top of her, and that's not her favorite position but in this case, right now, there's something freeing about being pinned beneath him, that shouldn't make sense, it shouldn't, but…

"So perfect," he groans as he enters her. He strokes her hair and smiles down at her, giving her _that_ look, that look she does not deserve, that look that says second chances are possible, that he understands and cares, that maybe he even more than cares.

"God I love this with you," he mutters, kissing her deeply. "So hot and wet, practically dripping, love you like this, love everything with you so much..."

"Love —mmm! _—_ when you talk like that! Don't stop, I…"

It's not like her to confess she likes his dirty mouth, even less like her to admit she likes the way he showers her with words of love, but it's the truth and she's tired of hiding it.

He fucks her in those deliberate, gradual thrusts that she thought she wouldn't like, but now, in this moment, absolutely _loves_. He touches her with a soulful reverence, kisses her with an almost... innocent passion, and this isn't _fucking,_ it's not, it's something far different. It's gentle and tender and slow and compassionate and no... it's _loving,_ he's _loving_ her, how could she not notice this before? He's been saying the word over and over in every way she will let him.

This is dangerous.

But he continues to shower compliments as pleasure blooms in her belly, grows and spreads, until she overflows with it, screaming his name so loud she worries the neighbors hear.

"Love it when you say my name," Robin moans, and then he fucks her faster, chases his orgasm with grunts and moans and soft words of _Oh, love, what you do to me_ and _Can't_ _—oh god_ _! — wait to come inside you._

He does, and it's her name on his lips when he reaches his own peak. Yet another connection they share.

He collapses next to her and draws his arms around her.

She's sticky between her legs, should be off to shower, yet she doesn't want to leave _this,_ the cocooned warmth of Robin's body wrapped around her between the sheets.

So she stays.

"I'm not mad at you anymore," he breathes into her hair.

Her chest tightens and she thinks she must misunderstand. He cannot be telling her she is _forgiven._ "You... aren't? But I—"

"You don't see yourself for who you are, your majesty. But _I_ see you. Your crimes are great. You suffered much _because_ of them, but you were suffering long before you ever committed them. You say you don't blame a lion for being a lion. I do not blame the abused caged dog who bites."

"I am not a defenseless animal," she argues, "that's not fair, it's... patronizing, it's..."

"It's understanding." His eyes pierce through her own. "And I see the good in you. I see what's there inside you, even though you don't recognize it in yourself. And I've been there. I wasn't always so awfully good Regina. Before Roland. Before Marian. I was not a good man. But Marian saw the good in me, and she saw the reasons why I… was like I was. She gave me the gift of a clean slate."

"Your deeds pale in comparison to mine."

"Maybe so, but my struggles and suffering do as well."

She blinks back tears she is grateful he cannot see, and snuggles into him closer, at a loss for what to say.

"How would you feel about spending the day with me and Roland?" he asks.

"I don't think that's a good idea…" she starts.

"I know you think I need to leave," he breathes, "but I'm not quite as ready to give up all hope as you are. Let us search for a solution that doesn't require separation."

"There is none," she mutters. "Trust me, I know,"

"Humor me," Robin begs, "what do we lose if I'm wrong? We've got all the time in the world. Let's take it."

He's right, after all.

She ducks into his chest, and nods her agreement. He holds her tighter and presses a kiss into her hair in return.

"Thank you," he breathes.

She doesn't know how she got to here, what cosmic force has sent her to a place where a beautiful man treats her tenderly and lovingly, where someone she's hurt, someone she's victimized, is thanking her with a disarming sincerity. And it can and probably will all crumble away in hours, or days, or weeks, but she figures, she may as well take the time to enjoy _this_ while she has it.


	5. Chapter 5

It could be a nice life, here. The town resets itself, and it may be an undying loop in the outside world, but they have one another. They can make each day new and exciting with one another. They could build a life with one another.

She loves it, if she's being honest. She loves waking up

But every five days, Roland's memory resets, and the pain in Robin's eyes when he realizes he forgot something is unlike anything she's ever seen.

"You have to leave," she says simply, after Roland yet again runs down for breakfast and tells his father the exact same story about the exact same odd dream he's had every five days for the last year. It's when Roland asks if his father can teach him to ride a bike that Robin's face really falls. He's taught Roland to bike ride so many times, each time a wonderful memory completely lost to him.

"Don't give up," Robin urges, "please."

"You don't understand. It takes magic to break this curse. And I have tried _everything_ I can, but magic simply doesn't exist in this world. At least… not magic great enough to break the curse."

"So you try something else, like maybe a way for Roland to age, so—"

"We've talked about that. What hellish trauma would it cause Roland to see he is the _only_ one who ages? I need a full curse break, Robin. And I don't have it. I don't have the power to do it."

They talk in circles all night, but in the end, he agrees with her.

"I don't want to go somewhere that's not with you," he says simply.

"I know. But Roland deserves to age and grow," she points out. "Immediately. We can't keep waiting for a miracle. It's too painful to you and unfair to him."

"Do we even know that it's safe for him to cross the town line?" Robin asks. "You don't even know if we can communicate — it could be dangerous for us, it could—"

She knows it's an excuse. He doesn't want to leave her. He wants more time with her, he has undying faith in their ability to get through this. But… that doesn't mean he also doesn't have a point.

"You're right."

.::.

Tonight, Roland remembers Regina. She's been around in the last five days, enough to where he remembers things about her, like her name. He doesn't remember how they first met, or that first time she took him to Granny's, and that's a shame. But children are fickle and who knows if he would remember that anyway.

That's positive, at least. There are aspects he doesn't remember — like what her lasagna tastes like, or what her office looks like, but it's not as miserable as the reset where he forgot her entirely.

It's almost torture, though, because he's so loving to her, so absolutely enamored with her, even in the middle of a board game, and that it makes her never want to give him up.

She's had to say goodbye to love before, but she's never had to say goodbye to the love of a child.

And that, it turns out, is a special, deep cut, that hurts down to her bone with a cold chill she knows she won't easily escape.

Robin presses a kiss into her brow and hands her the dice. Her turn to play.

She doesn't expect any good fortune to come when she rolls the dice.

Good luck and Regina have never got along.

But it's a great roll, anyway. Robin congratulates her, as she counts the places with her pawn until it reaches the home spot.

If only life were so easy.

She shouldn't be doing this. This domestic routine they've settled into. It may look like a boring, ordinary life on the outside, but to her it's precious, and perfect, all her dreams come true.

Her happily ever after.

It's going to be ripped away from her again and she doesn't know if she can recover.

"Alright, I am afraid it's bedtime, my boy," Robin says with a pointed look at his son.

"Can Regina read me a story?" he asks, those puppy dog eyes looking up at her, and _shit,_ she's really fallen for both of them.

She needs to take a step back.

"Of course, sweetie. What would you like to read?"

Later. Later she will will try to untangle from this life she has already become immersed in.

Right now she enjoys the way Roland clings to her as they walk up the stairs to his bed. The way he hangs on every word while she reads him _There's A Wocket In My Pocket,_ the way his eyelashes flutter as he grows sleepy, the way he cuddles against her hip as she whispers the last lines of the book, his heavy breathing when he's moments from sleep…

She closes the book and shuts off the light, unable to resist dropping a kiss to his forehead.

"G'night Regina," he whispers.

"Goodnight baby," she responds, so naturally, so easily. As if he were her own.

Robin it sitting on the old rocking chair, the one his memories tell him belonged to Marian (they are lies, Marian never bought such a chair). He has just been watching them together, it seems, and from the look on his face, he seems quite touched.

The second they close the door to Roland's bedroom he springs it on her.

"I don't think we should leave unless we have a plan. I know what I'm doing here. I have a job I like, a nice house, Roland's five day memory isn't much different than a child his age. I have no idea what to expect outside of Storybrooke, and what if I can't come back?"

"I agree," Regina says, "I need to make sure it's safe. But Roland deserves to age and you deserve to eventually _not_ be burdened as a single parent to a five year old. He should grow, Robin."

"I know," Robin scowls. "But he's at a good age. I wouldn't mind another twenty or so years…"

"No," Regina says softly, "you and I both know that's not right." She sighs, leans back on the couch, and admits, "As nice as that sounds... if we spend decades getting comfortable we will never have the strength to make the right decision. We have to do it now."

He looks absolutely miserable as he gives a little nod. "Okay, then, what do we do?"

She takes a deep breath, and slowly tells him her plan.

As most things do, it starts with Gold.

.::.

She's always nervous to call Rumplestiltskin. He's asleep, but the man still has that… power over her she just can't shake. He scares her, if she's being quite honest with herself, and it enrages her that even in _this_ realm she still has to feel this discomfort.

She shakes it off, reminds herself that _she_ has all the power in this realm, doesn't she?

Still her breath hitches as she dials his number.

"Ms. Mills, what do I owe the pleasure?" Gold sounds so… suspicious of her, somehow right away. But he can't be, can he? It's all in her head.

She pushes on, ever so confident. "Mr Gold, do you remember telling me that you wanted to be notified if any city property became available for purchase?"

She waits, hears his hesitation. He's told her that before, several times, but not recently enough to remember.

"I… yes, of course," he says, sounding incredibly confused, which brings a smile to her face.

"There's property on the edge of town I've no use for anymore.. A storm did cause some damage to a few of the trees on the property and if you purchase the property you will be required to clear the diseased trees."

"Well, I won't be purchasing a pile of land that will cost me more to maintain than its worth," he draws. "But the wooded area on the edge of town? I do… have an interest in that land."

Well that's a fortunate coincidence.

"Yes, um, oddly a surveyor has already blocked off the land…"

"Yes, I'm aware."

Odd, the land had always been marked off, she assumed to tell _her_ where the boundaries are. But it's odd for him to be aware of it too, isn't it?

"I… happened to be looking at the property a few days ago," he says by way of explanation. "before the storm. But I'd like to see this damage you speak of… if I could."

"Excellent," Regina says, "I'll meet you out with Mr. Petrov?"

Gold agrees.

.::.

She had spendt all night shifting the orange tape sectioning off the boundary lines. Just a few feet, nothing noticeable. Just a bit over so Gold will be technically over the town line when he walks around the edge of it.

And then, well, then she'll know if it's safe.

"You see, this tree here," Ivan Petrov says, pointing towards a tree on the town line. "Like I said to Ms Mills, it's threatening to fall on those power lines. We have to chop it down."

"Indeed," Rumple agrees.

"And there's this over here…" Ivan says, pointing to another tree.

Regina's blood runs cold as Petrov gets dangerously close to the actual town line… he's not supposed to be able to _want_ to cross, but what if she screwed up too many things by us no magic on Robin, what if he crosses and dies because of _her?_

She never much cared for him, but she does like his little son, little Fievel. Or Pasha, as he's known here. She would not like to cost a son his father.

Luckily for her, Ivan does not cross.

Rumple, though, is another story. He walks right to the edge of the orange border, to look at the tree Ivan is pointing to.

She sees it, a flicker of confusion when he steps across the town line.

She hold her breath, but nothing happens.

And then he walks back, like it is nothing, and continues to survey the land.

She doesn't pay attention to the rest of the property discussion.

Nothing matters. Gold walked across the town line, and he didn't die.

That means Robin can leave. Robin can leave her and start a new life where his son will age.

Robin can leave and find a beautiful new life away from this nightmare.

And she'll be alone again, trapped in her own prison.

Ivan shows Rumple the rest of the land, and it's torture, pretending that nothing is wrong, pretending her world isn't standing on its head.

She makes it, though, like she always does. Gold stares at her with that hint of suspicion, but he says nothing. Does not even ask her if something is wrong in that demeaning _way_ he has in the past.

They say their goodbyes, and he mentions something of acquiring the land, of making an offer, and she nods, tells him to call her office.

And then she trudges back to her office in slow motion dialing each digit slow and determined.

"It worked," Regina breathes into the phone. "Gold crosses the town line with no ill effects. It worked, Robin, you can…"

She can't finish that sentence, not right now, because she has to keep her voice even. She can't risk letting one of those choked sobs sneak out. Tears are streaming down her face, but he can't see that, and he doesn't need to know how hurt and broken she is right now. They should be celebrating, after all. This is for the best. And if Gold has suffered some horrible fate?

Well, she would have been a sobbing mess, too. Because it would be her fault that Robin and Roland were trapped in this prison. That Roland would be a child forever, never able to grow, or age.

She sucks a breath in, a desperate attempt to calm herself down and finish this conversation as if everything were normal.

"Let me see you," he begs, "I don't want to have this conversation over the phone, I need to—"

"I'll make plans for you and contact you when things are ready for your departure—"

" _Contact_ me? Regina what does that mean? Are you not going to let us see you anymore? You can't do that, you can't just—"

It's easier this way," she promises, "for the both of you."

When she ends the call, she feels empty and cold.

It hurts, it feels wrong and unnatural, but this is for the best. Distance.

.::.

Robin lets her have a night. A night and most of the next day, before he calls again.

She tries to be polite and distant as she begs him off, saying she's busy and will contact him when she has found him a place to stay, necessary paperwork, and at least a good solid lead on jobs outside the town.

He huffs into the phone and tells her he wants to talk in person, but she refuses. He puts up an argument but eventually relents, and lets her end the conversation without argument.

She thinks that will be the end of it and absolutely refuses to lament how easily he gave up.

But the next evening, he and his son are on her porch (a nice touch, that, bringing Roland, so she can't possibly scream and send him away). And perhaps she yet again misjudged him. He doesn't give up so easily after all.

"Regina!" Roland giggles, "I painted you a tree!" He is holding a piece of paper, still damp from an abundance of watercolor. It is mostly green, but there are splotches of blue and yellow, even a bit of brown.

Upon closer inspection it does appear to have been a rather nice tree, with a sun and sky behind it. Would have been a very ordinary painting for a child his age, had the paint been allowed to dry. But the colors have all run together, creating an abstract look she finds rather charming.

Not surprising, of course. Everything about this family charms her, doesn't it?

"Beautiful, Roland," she praises, "I'm going to frame this, once the paper has a bit of time to dry."

His eyes go wide. "Frame it? LIke a _real_ picture?"

"It _is_ a real picture," she tells him, pressing her index finger to his nose. "A beautiful one, at that. One of my favorites."

She still hasn't let them in. She's hovering over the doorway, focused on Roland and entirely ignoring Robin. She should just tell them she's busy and have them go on their way right?

But Roland is shifting back and forth on his feet, itching to get inside. And when he asks, "Can I help you find out where to hang my picture?" she finds she can't turn him away.

She's weak, so weak for children. This one in particular. She should _not_ be doing this. Roland needs to forget about her.

"I think it should be here," Roland says, pointing to a patch of wall right by the sink. It's a terrible place for a picture, the light fixture would be hovering right over it, as well, but she can't help but smile at his reasoning. "'Cause you are always in the kitchen and this way you can see it all the time and think of me."

Sure, it's a sharp stab in the heart, but it also makes her go warm and soft inside. She tries to look at this positively; children once feared her, loathes her, _hated her._

She had thought it was because her heart had darkened, that she could no longer draw the affection of children like she did before she trained under Rumple and chose revenge.

It first started before she had ever hurt anyone. A King and Queen from a neighboring village had brought their newborn daughter to visit Leopold.

The child had shrieked inconsolably in her arms, the mother muttering apologies as she lifted her back out of Regina's arms. And oh, it hurt. Regina craved affection from anyone during those days, and the child had not offered any. Still, she would not have thought much of it, had Rumple not said what he did the next time he saw her.

 _Children are clever creatures. Rather intuitive. They see the evil adults cannot_

Roland is clever. Roland sees things others cannot. But Roland likes her, despite knowing nothing about her under the curse.

He didn't like her because she planted false memories. He likes her because of the real ones that they sewed together.

And it's awful, because Roland will be lost to her forever. But there's hope. Hope that maybe children won't always see her as an evil witch forever.

"Regina, love?" Robin asks, looping an arm around her wrist gently. "You okay?"

She turns to find both Locksley's looking at her with curiosity. She wonders how long she's been lost in thought.

"Yes," she clears her throat and forces a fake smile, "just wasn't expecting company today."

She gives a pointed look in Robin's direction.

He shrugs sheepishly and just says a simple "I missed you."

It breaks her heart.

"I missed you _too_ , Regina!" Roland pipes up.

And no, she was wrong, her heart was never broken until the exact moment the pint sized Locksley spread his dimples and reminded her that he cares about her.

She's never going to get over them.

But she really needs to talk to Robin alone. Immediately.

"Roland, I would say this masterpiece has earned you. bit if television," Regina says, holding his picture as if it were precious treasure. "Go see what's on."

He does as she says, scampers off, and then she sees Robin looking at her with a sweetness that throws her.

"I love seeing you parent him."

Her cheeks flush.

Right. She shouldn't be the one who gets to dictate television time, should she? She never should have, but certainly not now, when she's supposed to be keeping her distance.

"Sorry, that wasn't my place," she says, waving a hand at his protesting _no, I like you taking care of him,_ "I just needed to talk to you without him hearing. Because you _can't_ do that. And you can't use your son to get to me when I won't take your calls."

"I know," Robin says, sighing. He leans against the kitchen cabinets, his arms crossed. "You want me to pretend I don't feel things for you. You want me to let my son forget about you. You want me to leave before I ever cross that town line. And it's _not_ going to happen."

He's not too forceful with that statement, and despite his words, it doesn't sound like he's ready for a fight. He seems more… resigned.

"Robin, we shouldn't make this harder—"

But he's prepared for that argument, it seems, since he's already shaking his head, weaving fingers through hers, pulling their now-joined hands towards his body. She wants to let him pull her right against his body, to just lay her head into his shoulder, but she fights the instinct.

"You're right. We shouldn't make this harder. I don't want to waste a minute of time with you, while I've got you. It's not possible for this to hurt any _more._ It'll take a few days to get everything sorted for our departure, yeah? I want to spend those days soaking up every ounce of you I can."

"You could forget all about me the second you cross that line," Regina reminds, "but _I_ will remember, and that would be torture for me. Torture I would have to suffer _all alone_."

He looks confused, as if he hadn't considered that. "But Gold, his memories—"

"Gold created the curse," she argues, "and he's not _awake._ Once you cross you could forget that I am the Evil Queen and that you are Robin Hood. And without that memory, what would you remember of me? It could be nothing. And then you'd be blissfully unaware of what we had, while I am stuck holding all the misery of what could have been."

It seems to dawn on him that she may be suffering on her on on this. He takes a step back, and nods.

"Then what do you want? Do you really want us to go away? Spend the last few moments we may have apart? I'll do it if it's what you want, love. I don't want to, but if you think it will help..."

"I… don't know what will help," she admits. That seems to be permission he needs to draw her into a huge. She accepts it, leans her head against his shoulder and breathe in. Fuck, this is hard.

"If the worse happens, and I disappear from your life, it will be like I am dead to you," Robin muses. "We've both suffered our loved ones dying before. I wouldn't trade a moment with Marian, I'd have spent every last second with her. And I feel the same way about you as I did with Marian. I would take the pain of missing you for years if it meant I got one more day with you, to kiss you and touch you and love you as I want."

And fuck, he makes a good point. Because if she had known Daniel would die, she would have only spent _more_ time with him, not less.

She'd touch him as much as she could, kiss him as much as he'd let her, spend every minute of the day with him.

And there's no reason to pretend this is much different. She feels something deeply with Robin. Maybe deeper than she did with Daniel. A few days apart won't do anything to alleviate the pain of losing Robin. She's already in this too deep.

The silence has grown on long, and Robin hastily speaks again. "But I'm not pushing you into something that hurts you. You know how I feel about you, you know what I want. What do you want?"

She knows what she wants.

She tilts her head up and cups his chin, urging him to meet her lips. She catches his little smile a second before his mouth meets hers. That goofy, smug little smile she's come to love.

She kisses him with fire, with passion and need. But she doesn't crave sex nearly as much as the intimacy of being in his arms, and she doesn't want to leave it anytime soon.

And she certainly doesn't want to talk about his departure again, not right now.

So they keep kissing.

His hand has just found its way down, just started to cup at her ass when she hears Roland's high pitched _Gross!_

She jumps out of the kiss, mortified, but Robin is just looking like a kid in a candy shop. "Roland, you are a terrible wingman."

"What's a wingman, daddy?" Roland asks, head cocked and hands on his hips.

Robin just shakes his head and says, "You'll understand when you're ol—"

His voice fades, and Regina sighs. He will understand it when he's older. When he's away from her, and older.

When he is being a good wingman to his dad with a completely different woman.

Robin smiles at her sadly, presses a kiss to her forehead, and shakes the sudden bleak mood away.

"I'm ordering us a pizza."

.::.

Roland is sprawled out on the floor, sedated from too much pizza and too many disney movies. His little feet peek out from the blanket Regina had given him as the night grew late. He's so cute. It's overwhelming at times.

"How is it that we kept our names," Robin whispers to her. "In the curse, I mean." It's an odd question, comes out of nowhere and she's unprepared.

"I don't know," she says, "Most people did not, but some are the same. She breathes in deeply and notes, "My name is the same. Prince David's name is the same. Well, his first name, anyway."

"But our first _and_ last names are the same."

"Yes. That reminds me, when you go out into the world you are going to get _a lot_ of Robin Hood jokes. And once you mention your wife's name was Marian….well..."

"If you're drawing up legal documents and have the ability, feel free to give me a new last name," he says flippantly "I'll go by Robert, no one will think anything of it." And then he presses on. "Anyway. I was asking about our names because it seems odd the both of us would be kept exactly the same. And I was thinking that it's possible that the curse didn't fully take us the way it took others. Maybe because we're a part of you."

She hates this about him, hates how he sews these little ideas into her head, just under the surface, lets them fester and blister into a big giant, hurtful lesion of hope.

She sighs, and looks at him. She's angry at him now, because he keeps giving her ideas for things she can never have. "Our time is short, Robin. We have to accept that. You can deny it if you'd like of course, but you're only setting yourself up for disappointment."

He shrugs. "We're soulmates. I don't believe you can separate us so easily."

"You _really_ don't want to be separated from me?"

His answer is immediate and effortless. He looks back at her so intently, and it feels so god damned _honest_ when he tells her "No, I don't. Not one bit."

She laughs bitterly, then bites her lip and tries to compose herself. He doesn't want to be separated from her, as much as he knows about her. But he doesn't know everything, does he? He doesn't know that no one is safe with her - not even loved ones. So she reveals her biggest secret, the one she knows will have him running and never looking back.

"I killed my father, you know."

She looks him right in the eyes, and she waits to see the terror forming there, but there is none.

"I figured." He shrugs, as if it were nothing. As if she just confessed to burning dinner. "The way you acted when I asked… I knew you had to have killed him."

"He loved me. He didn't hurt me, and I killed him all the same. To enact this curse. I needed the heart of the thing I loved most. So I killed a wonderful, loving, innocent man who only wanted the best for me. What sort of person—"

"He didn't protect you from your mother. He didn't even try to get you to out of a marriage you didn't want, did he? He didn't deserve to die, but let's not make the man into a saint." He sighs and rubs at his thighs, purses his lips and glances back at her with some… affection. "I've had a lot of time to think about this, love. You get to feel guilty. I cannot imagine how it feels to have that weighing on your conscience. I know it does, just by how you told me just now. And that means you regret it. If you thought this was going to be the thing to push me away, you're wrong."

She's too bewildered to even understand. "You still… you still want to be around me, still want _me,_ knowing what I did to someone who was nothing but— to someone who cared for me?"

He wraps an arm around her and pulls her close to him. "Regina, when are you going to realize that I don't care about what you did in the past? Haven't I made it clear that I know you are not that person anymore?" His voice is light, sweet, almost playful. Such a stark contrast from the somber mood.

She can't quite process what it means to have a person know _all_ her secrets, all her faults and failings, every last evil bit, and still accept her. Still _want_ her. For all these years she's been the only person to know how truly evil she was, and she can hardly stand to be inside her own skin.

And while they are being honest, while he's holding her heart in his hands, she might as well confess all her weaknesses too.

"I'm… scared." She admits. "I don't want to lose you. I'm going to miss you so much."

He presses a kiss to her brow and suedes her tight. "Darling, have faith. I don't believe this is how our story ends."

She has no such faith. But she wants to try. For him.

So she snuggles into him, shares a glass of whiskey with him, and watches late night television, and lets them trade tender kisses and innocent touches.

Robin carries Roland up to the spare bedroom when their television show ends (they weren't watching it anyway). The room is quickly becoming his own, and Regina loves it that way. She's bought little things, superhero bed sheets, a colorful comforter a few knick knacks that make it more appealing to a child… it was too soon to do any of that for Roland, but she has always thought of it as a room for a child, after all.

"This has been a perfect evening," Robin says earnestly, after his son is tucked in. "A delicious meal, damn good whiskey, a beautiful, brave, woman, my son, who I love dearly… If it's all I had for the rest of my life, I would say I was living in paradise."

God, why does he have to make this so hard?

"Robin…" she warns.

"Please, Regina," Robin says with a sad little smile. "Let's not remind ourselves of what's to come. Can we just pretend this is our lives now, just for tonight?"

She's already agreed to do that, hasn't she?

So she nods and tries to put that voice to bed, the one that tells her to guard herself, the one that tells her she will soon be miserable and lonely.

"Good," Robin says, with a devilish smile, as he walks her away from the stairwell and towards her bedroom. "Because I snuck some champagne up to your room during a commercial break… and I _might_ have lit a few a few candles in effort to seduce you. "

Her lips hurt from trying to fight the impulse to smile. She reminds him, "you don't have to seduce me, I'm already yours."

The face he makes in response to that is worth everything.

She's never felt so… cared for. He puts a hand on her cheek, stroking it lovingly, the way he likes to, she's come to realize. And he likes playing with strands of her hair. It's shorter these days, and she's always _liked_ that aspect of the curse. Long hair reminds her of her mother's strong and vindictive magic, tugging and pulling it from the roots when she misbehaved, or Leo's hands, tangling themselves in her tresses during their….sessions. She was glad to have a hairstyle that did not remind her of those times.

But now, knowing how Robin feels about her hair, it makes her wish it were just a tad longer, so he'd have more to touch, more to weave his fingers through while they kiss and touch.

His hands leave her hair as he leads her to the bedroom, strips off all her clothes (lets her strip him of his own) and then he lays her in the bed, and spreads her thighs.

"Wanted this all day," he whispers, "just you, just to be _here_ with you."

He's so damn gentle with her, so romantic. He takes his time, working her up, kissing and sucking in those places he's learned she loves. It's all for her, this time, and she knows it.

He kisses up her left leg tenderly, slowly working himself to the apex of her thighs, hooking that leg behind his shoulders as he reaches where she needs him, and she moans at just the _sight_ of him, before his tongue so much as touches her.

He smiles and looks up at her before his hand cup her bottom and he lowers himself to feast on her.

She wouldn't call him _gentle._ Reverent, maybe, deliberate and slow, but each touch is firm, and confident, and positively electrifying.

She comes on his tongue embarrassingly quick, already worked up and wanting for hours due to the sweet domesticity of the evening, the wine and his chaste kisses, such odd ingredients that mix into the perfect aphrodisiac.

But he doesn't tease her for how quickly she falls apart for him, only stays, touching and eating her, letting her thighs tremble and her belly spasm under his touch, until she reaches for his shoulders to pull him away from where she is too sensitive.

He crawls up her body and kisses her. Usually after he eats at her his kisses are a bit sloppy and desperate, but this time he's more passionate and measured, kissing her in a way that doesn't feel like it's a part of sex. It's something more intimate.

He lays next to her as they kiss, rubbing his fingertips over her body, tracing the curves to her body. Her skin turns to gooseflesh under his touch, a tingling prickle ignites her nerves and rushes to her head and makes her feel drunk and dizzy. She reaches for his erection, in attempt to get to the main event, but he grasps her wrists and guides it to his hips instead, urging her to hold him the same way he is holding her. It's nice to just...kiss. To just be close.

He pulls back from her after a bit, far enough to so she can look into his eyes without everything going blurry. He cups her cheek, strokes the apple with his thumb. "Regina…" he whispers, and something about how he says it nearly chokes her with an emotion she won't put a name to.

He swoops in, presses a kiss to her lips and draws back, and says in that low, smoky voice. "I love—"

Her eyebrows raise, because he _knows,_ he _knows_ he isn't supposed to say that. And that look shuts him up, has him stopping, grimacing and shaking his head.

"I love you like this," he finishes, and it's not quite what he wanted to say, but she'll take it. She'll live in denial.

"I love you like _this,_ " she says, her hand gripping his ass tightly. "Fuck me."

"But I…." She looks at him and it's clear. He doesn't want to right now. But not for lack of wanting her (the evidence of that is hard against her hip, after all). For some other reason.

"I don't need it. I just need you close tonight," he explains, threading fingers through her hair. "I just want you in my arms."

They kiss and touch, until she's a completely mess, swollen and soaking between her thighs,until every bump against his middle has him groaning, and it's then that he lets her, when she begs, when she says she so _needs_ his _cock,_ when she has to come so hard it _hurts_. Then he lets her take him inside her, groaning at the contact of her, apologizing immediately because he's close, far too close. But so is she, she tells him, whispering in his ear, that she's about to come again, she's going to come so hard, she just needs to _feel_ him.

He thrusts into her hard, and it's all slapping of skin and knocking of hips, his thumb rubbing desperately against her, at an absurdly fast and firm pace, trying desperately to catch up to where he already is.

He gets so close, he has those tell-tale grunts, those little movements, and his cock is rock hard inside her, nearly pulsing inside her, and it's a matter of seconds now, she knows—

"Stop!" she says, because she's too close to be satisfied without another orgasm, "don't come yet, I want— I need—"

He lets out this little whine, this little desperate thing that makes guilt bloom in her heart, but it's actually hot, he slips out of her, replaces his cock with fingers, and works her up that way, his fingers inside her, his other hand toying with her clit, until she's gasping and writhing under him, until she lets out a wanton "I'm cl- _close!_!" that has him drawing back his hands, sheathing himself inside her.

It's only a few thrusts before that warmth in her belly overflows, til a sharp thrust has her falling over that peak, and she screams into his mouth as he kisses her hard, as her body shakes and convulses under him.

He's a few beats behind her, coming as she's still clenching around him with a shout of her name.

He pulls out and wraps his arms around her, kissing her forehead and whispering that he cares for her, that she's everything to him, that he loves how she feels, how she looks, how she is with his son (he loves everything about her, it seems, and he lists them, and she knows it's a way to say those three words without actually saying them).

They've had sex, so many times, so many ways before. But this time is closer, more intimate than ever. It solidifies a connection, a feeling she doesn't like to speak of.

But deep down inside she knows. They are deeply, tragically, irrevocably connected. They are two halves that found each other, they've been fitted together, and finally feel whole.

Separating is going to feel awful, unnatural and empty.

.::.

It only takes two more weeks, and everything is in place.

Money has been transferred to bank accounts. The proper paperwork has been bestowed on both Robin and Roland - now, US citizens with birth certificates and social security numbers. No longer Locksleys, now Leonhardts.

"It's all here," she says, holding up a folder of his new life. She's been staying with them, lately. With Robin and Roland. They have a quaint home near the woods, and it's been so easy to abandon her old lonely house and just stay with them in comfort.

"Already?" Robin asks incredulously. "All of that, what you had written down we needed? I thought it would take months."

"Yes, well," Regina sighs. "Our town is… annoyingly efficient." She frowns a bit and adds, "I am _very_ good at my job. Too good sometimes."

He laughs and shakes his head sadly. He takes her in his arms, one hand running through her hair. She loves being held like this — more than she cares to admit. "Why couldn't I have fallen for someone incompetent?" he teases.

She gives him a half hearted swat on the shoulder and sinks into him. "I just got a rental agreement for a beautiful house in Rockport, and the Parks committee is expecting to see you for a job interview next Friday…" She pauses, to give him a little sad smile, "a formality, frankly, giving the stunning review i've given you and _impressive_ resume I've concocted for you. Roland is all set to enroll in school, and—"

Her voice hitches at that, as her mind wanders to him learning, and growing, for the first time in five years. And she's going to miss it.

"Shhh," Robin says, wrapping his arms around her. "It's going to be okay. You and I are going to figure a way to break this curse. I know we will. And until then, I'm going to make sure you get a key to this little house you're talking about. I think I would like you as a frequent visitor."

"Robin," she wants, moving back from his embrace long enough to look him in the eye. "We've discussed this."

"Yes, we have. And you know that I believe nothing will change when I cross that line. And until it does, I want you in my bed as often as you can."

"You don't understand. Even if you kept all your memories… crossing the line, going through magic, so many times? that's dangerous. Your body can go through a portal once every month or so, but I couldn't— not every day."

His face falls at that, just a bit, before he peeks up and says, "Once a month, then."

"Maybe," she gives, not wanting to argue.

.::.

It's a miserable day for travel.

The day is grey and cold, the wind is harsh and biting, but it's the mood of the day that really has her shivering as they make their way to the pond just by the town line.

Regina has decided they should walk across the town line, just in case anything serious happens, it's best to be on foot and not trapped in a metal box filled with fuel and fire.

So she drives Robin's packed car across the town line, while he drove _her_ car to the duck pond right near the edge of town.

She walks there to meet them.

Roland looks skittish.

"Regina, I don't want to move," he says, his voice wavy and lost.

"I know baby, but I heard your new house is really pretty!" she tries, "and I think your school is really fun. It's is right near the woods, and there's a lake…"

"I will miss Anthony," he pouts. "And Willa is having a birthday party next week and now I can't go."

"You will make new friends," she soothes, but Roland says he doesn't want new friends, he likes the ones he has.

"Will you visit me?" He asks, her voice thick and wet.

It seems to be too much for Robin. He's not doing well, she realizes. His eyes are red rimmed and he looks pale. She hadn't noticed the circles under his eyes before, but they are there. They've spent every night in bed together for the last two weeks, but Regina realizes he must have been sleeping as little as she has.

"I'll give you two a minute. I'm just going to go on a short little walk to clear my head" Robin says quickly, before walking towards a nearby trail.

"Will you, Regina? Visit me?"

Well, it seems Robin has left her with the hard questions.

And what's the harm if he won't remember her when he crosses that line?

"Yes, sweetheart. I will visit you all the time." She lies.

Because even if they _do_ remember, after a few months of barely seeing one another, Robin will move on and find a real relationship. Once a month visits is no way to live.

"Here," Regina says, holding a bag of oats to Roland, "I think I see some very hungry ducks over by the lake who would love you to feed them."

Roland frowns and kicks his feet in the dirt, but doesn't take the bag of oats out of her hand like he normally does..

"Roland, come on, you love feeding the ducks. You look forward to it every week."

He isn't looking at her, he's staring at the ducks, watching as they swim and play in the cold water. And finally he lets out a choked little sob and sniffle and asks, "Will you feed them for me, when I am gone?"

He's hurling himself into her arms before she can say a word, and she bends down to catch him, holding him tight against her..

A wave of self loathing washes over her, and it's misery. Roland's so god damned innocent, fragile and tenderhearted. And what a person she was, when she enacted this curse, caring nothing for the children like Roland caught in the midst.

"I'm so sorry, Roland. I promise this is for the best." she soothes.

"But I don't _want_ to go!" he sobs into her shoulder. "Can't you tell Daddy that—"

"No sweetie, this is for the best. But I promise, I _promise_ this is going to be good for you. Okay?"

She catches Robin walking back towards them, breathing a sigh of relief.

"What were you two chatting my about?" he says a little _too_ cheerfully.

"I told Regin I didn't want to go. But she says it'll be _fun_." Roland mutters.

"It will, my boy!" Robin responds, "And if we don't like it we can always go back, okay?"

Fire starts before her eyes as she glares at him.

She can't blame Robin. She's already lied once to Roland, but twice seems cruel.

But it cheers Roland up enough to get a smile out of him, to have him cheerfully feeding the ducks.

Robin sits next to on the bench and places an arm around her.

"I'm sorry. I can't watch him be miserable, if he's upset, I don't think I'll have the strength to leave." She shakes her head, chasing tears away. She doesn't speak, tries to compose herself, so her voice doesn't shake. She lets him continue. "I know, it's not exactly true to tell him that we can come back. I know there's a chance he won't remember," he whispers into her ear. "but if he does, milady, we are going to find our way back to you. I know it."

That's when a single tear falls free from her eyes and rolls down her cheek.

They won't, they can't.

But she doesn't have the strength to remind him. So she just grabs a handful of oats and joins Roland in feeding the ducks.

Robin follows.

.::.

After an hour of feeding ducks, Roland says he's hungry, and that is that. They will catch a meal at the diner Regina has mapped out, down the street.

Across the town line.

Without her, like every meal they will have from now on.

She doesn't want them to go, but they must.

"I will visit you," Robin promises as they walk to the town line, "And you will visit me. We will see each other once every two weeks. You won't be alone."

Oh, if only he were right. But she shakes her head.

"We've discussed this. It's uncertain that you will be able to ever return once you leave," she says bluntly, "Even if Gold ventured a few steps across and returned… you are awake and are going far further than a step across the line. And there is no telling what wandering over that line will do to your memories or Roland's memories. Magic is unpredictable. Let's not make such promises."

"I shouldn't leave you," his voice is shaking now. This still takes her by surprise. Carnal lust, the passion in their lovemaking — that is expected. She's beautiful, she knows that. But just as well as she knows that, she knows she's evil. And he does too. Yet he treats her… as if she's someone he's actually proud to love instead of forced to love.

Not that she has let him say those words yet.

"You have to leave," she says just over a whisper, "for Roland."

He doesn't argue, just takes her in his arms. He hugs tight, but she's holding him against her even tighter. She hears Roland, nearby, playing some sort of game with sticks, and bless him for being preoccupied because she really does need a moment.

Tears fall free. She doesn't even have the strength to chase them away.

"Alright, go on, both of you," she finally says, after she's sure she's hugged him for far too long, "hurry, you need to get settled before dinner. And it's… it's a rather long drive." Her voice cracks and wobbles as she thinks of how far they will be from her, shit, she hates that.

"Goodbye, Regina!" Roland says tearfully, hugging at her legs. She lifts him up, draws him into a tight hug.

"I love you, Roland." She says, god the words come so easily. She hasn't said them to many people, but to Roland they fall free as if it were nothing.

"I love you too," he says earnestly.

When she puts him down, Robin takes his hand, and they prepare to walk across the line… but he turns again, can't help it, takes her in another passionate embrace and kisses the life out of her. She returns it, eagerly.

"Regina…" he says as she breaks out of the kiss, "I…"

"I know." She assures. She does know what he's going to say, those three words that under different circumstances she would love to hear, but not now. It will only hurt more to hear them right before he's lost to her forever.

Robin nods, and takes Roland's hand.

And then they step forward.

And white light crashes everywhere.

Shit. shitshitshit. This didn't happen with Gold, what has she done, it…

When the flash of light disappears she sees Robin on the other side. Thank god he's in one piece.

"Regina? What happened?" He asks, and then he looks down to his hand that was holding Roland. "Where's— oh my god, where is—"

No. Not the baby, god not him, she won't live with herself if…

"Daddy? Daddy? Where did you go?" She spins around and there, several hundred yards behind her is Roland. He looks confused, but not particularly upset. "Where are you?"

"Roland!"

Oh god Roland can't cross the line, magic must have tossed him back… but Robin just crossed, has she just separated father and son for life?

Is there no worse damage she can inflict?

But she only has to punish herself for a split second before Robin crosses back across the line like it's nothing.

"Robin," she sobs, feeling useless and miserable. Roland can't age, she can't even help, for all the magic she learned, she doesn't know how to stop this. "Robin I am so, so sorry."

But Robin is grinning from ear to ear, shaking his head like he doesn't believe his good luck.

"Don't be," he says, cupping her cheek, "I am so glad I don't have to leave. I'm grateful for it. I love you."

There they are.

Those words they've been falling over themselves _not_ to say.

And it's terrifying and surreal as she's smiling despite herself and finally voicing what she's felt for weeks. "I love you too."

His fingers scratch at her scalp, other arm anchored around her waist, and then he's tilting down to kiss her.

It feels so good, so free. It only lasts a second, there's Roland after all.

"It was a silly plan," he murmurs. "I'm never considering a plan that separates us ever again."

She smiles and shakes her head.

"Daddy! Come here, look what I found!" Roland is engaged in something by a fallen log, probably some sort of bug, or god knows what else little boys like.

Frankly she can't wait to see whatever gross thing he shows her.

And she's going to cherish every one of these moments for as long as she's allowed.

Robin smiles and then turns his attention to his son. "Coming, my boy!" He calls, sprinting towards him.

God, seeing them reunited and here, in town, is such a relief.

She runs with him, in time to see a frog that is delighting Roland.

"Isn't it cool?" Roland asks. And then, "What are we doing here? I forget."

Shit.

It seems the town line has disoriented him, completely erased the memories of their plans to leave out of town. And that's for the best, because they are staying. They have to, don't they?

"We just came to feed the ducks," Robin says, eyes full of tears. "We walked a bit too far. Let's go back and feed them, then. we will go to Granny's, alright?"

Roland runs ahead, eagerly, all thoughts of leaving town or moving completely out of his head.

"I don't know what happened," Regina says slowly, as Roland skips towards the pond. "I promise you, Gold went right through the townline and nothing happened—"

"And so did I," Robin reminds. "I felt nothing at all. But Roland… why did the magic prevent him from leaving?"

"That's what the spell was supposed to do," Regina gives, "as long as you were under the curse, no one could leave, but…" she pauses, chewing her lip, "Gold has no issues. The land surveyor never crossed the line, never came too terribly close… I can cross…"

Shit.

"Robin, it's because he's awake."

"What?"

"Gold, Gold could cross because he's awake. He has been pretending this whole time, but he is like us. It's the only explanation."

Robin seems to think that over before nodding. "So what does that mean then?" he asks, "What is our next step?"

"Gold doesn't want this curse broken yet. Otherwise he would have ended it himself. But I'm sure he knows something. Maybe… we have to keep an eye on him. I'm sure he knows how to break it and I'm sure he's brought some sort of magic over to this world with him."

Robin nods, and presses a kiss to her forehead.

"That sounds like a good plan, something we can do in a few days. But for now, I almost lost you… and I'd like very much to spend all day and all night with you, just drinking you in. Only happy thoughts for now, okay? The thought of leaving you has been… awful. And now that I don't have to do it I find I don't have the room to feel anything but happy for awhile. Join me? Be happy with me?"

And frankly the thought of just relaxing and enjoying each other is too tempting to turn down.

"Happiness it is, then." Regina agrees. "And as our first act, let's get your hungry child to Granny's and let him eat whatever he wants."

Robin squeezes her tightly, presses a peck into her cheek, and calls out, "Okay Roland, we are headed back to town."

"Where we belong," he finishes with a whisper in her ear.

Her cheeks heat, her face hurts from smiling.

There's a bit to work out, but they are where they belong. For now.


End file.
